


Time for a Lesson

by TigerLilyNoh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental dismemberment resulting from typos, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Character Death, Court intrigue punctuated with violence, Demon Dean Winchester, Demons, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gaslighting, Graphic Violence, Hurt Sam Winchester, Intoxicated Sex, Knights of Hell (Supernatural), Physical Abuse, Politics of Hell, Psychic Sam Winchester, Psychological Torture, SPOILER TAGS BELOW, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sam Winchester's Visions, Sam Winchester-centric, Threats of Cannibalism, Threats of sexual violence, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, mentions of/past sexual violence, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 07:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 80,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerLilyNoh/pseuds/TigerLilyNoh
Summary: Ever since Dean’s transformation into a knight of Hell, Sam has been following the trail of mangled bodies left in his brother’s wake.  His goal is to save Dean, but blind in his pursuit, he fails to see the trap set for him.  He discovers that not only has his brother found a new, sinister purpose, he’s also found a partner in Abaddon.  As their prisoner, Sam struggles to survive and remain a good man, while Dean attempts to twist and mold him into a servant of Hell.  Of course, Sam expects to be tortured, but the lengths that his captors will go to in order to break him is only comparable to the absurdity of what they want from him.Note:  This is canon divergent after season nine.





	1. The Death of Apathy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the 2019 SPN Dark Fic Bang. 
> 
> Special thanks to BeesAreAwesome for the beautiful artwork, and thank you to mpanighetti for betaing this mess for me.

It was slightly after ten on a Friday night, and the downtown bar scene was teeming with intoxicated activity. Dean walked the streets, searching for something, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was missing. He stopped briefly in front of a lounge to peer in the window. The dozens of people inside, drinking, flirting, dancing, laughing—he felt nothing for them. If anything was stirring in his heart, it was disgust.

In his frustration, he continued down the sidewalk away from all the primitive noise and posturing. When he saw a metal gate to some small garden courtyard, he reflexively reached for the bars. The iron burned his hand. He looked at the smoking flesh for a moment before he remembered that he was a demon. It didn’t bother him. He didn’t feel any regret or shame. Everything was just very new and confusing.

He kicked open the gate, breaking the simple locking mechanism, then walked into the garden. His fingers gently caressed the petals of the moonlit flowers. He breathed in the scent of a rose, but it seemed disenchanting. It was some creation that he’d been taught to find beautiful, but for the first time in his life he realized that it was… underwhelming, some collection of cliches that failed to inspire any emotion in him. When it came right down to it, so much of Earth and human existence was a disappointment.

Dean tried to imagine what would actually make him happy. He was a knight of Hell, one of the most powerful creatures in the world. Everything was his for the taking, if he so desired— But he didn’t. There was a wrongness in him. He was immortal now and he had no idea how to use even the next five minutes of eternity. Something was thrashing around inside him, a beast trying to escape, but to what end? He’d let it out in a heartbeat if only he knew where to direct its wrath.

“Hands up!”

He turned around to see a police officer standing at the broken metal gate. The woman had a gun trained on him. Without bothering to raise his hands, he strolled over to her as she unloaded the magazine. Well, at least being shot wasn’t nearly as painful as it had been when he was human. Rather than simply snap her neck, he reached into her gawking mouth, grabbed her jaw and ripped it from her head. He was surprised at how few of the muscles in her neck were torn off with the mandible. She had hardly started to scream before the noise was cut off. He wasn’t sure if she’d been silenced by blood loss, damage to her larynx, or some other anatomical thing he hadn’t bothered to learn about in high school. Regardless, when he dropped her body to the ground, he stared for several seconds. It was all so unsatisfying. He glanced at the three horrified bystanders before tossing the jawbone aside, shrugging, and disappearing.

* * *

Without any better idea, Dean traveled to Hell. Surely he’d be able to get some answers direct from the source of his new nature. It only took murdering six lesser demons before the red carpet had been rolled out for him. He was the first new knight of Hell in roughly two thousand years. His near-celebrity status was better than being actively hated, but he couldn’t help but feel some loathing for the countless demons that immediately showed their underbellies to such a novel, potentially-dangerous presence. That pathetic greeting wasn’t the sort of confidence-inspiring response he’d been hoping to find. At least when he reached the throne room he was met with a familiar face. 

Crowley was seated on the throne, eternal glass of scotch affixed to his hand. He was smiling with a smugness, as if he was the one who’d truly labored to bring about the new knight. Knowing him, he’d already started spreading rumors throughout the back channels of Hell that he’d given their people this precious gift. Never mind the fact that he’d simply pointed Dean in the right direction, then waited in the wings for the carnage to end.

The thought of how it’d all gone down—Crowley’s passivity and selfishness—it made Dean’s stomach sour, but he was desperate and at least he could talk to the guy. While maybe Crowley wasn’t the most respectable or altruistic source of information, at least Dean could smell his bullshit a mile away.

“It really is true,” Crowley muttered to himself. “You’re back, and badder than ever.”

“Crowley, I need some help.” Dean didn’t have a problem admitting that he needed assistance; he couldn’t care less what anyone else thought of him. But for some reason the act of reaching out to Crowley in particular felt wrong. He quickly added, “It’s you or throw a dagger in the dark.”

“I’m glad my expertise is so revered.”

God, he needed expertise. “What do I do?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the incredibly broad question. “Pardon?”

“I….” Dean tried to find the right way to articulate the restlessness he felt. “I know I need to do something, but I don’t know what.”

The corner of Crowley’s lip curled up in a sly grin. He was about to make a self-interested play. Honestly, Dean hardly cared if the guy benefited, as long as his answer was meaty enough to inspire something. He’d been wandering through the fog for so long that he’d take safe harbor wherever it could be found.

“You’re a knight of Hell,” Crowley replied. “You serve the King.”

The statement struck him as profoundly wrong, like a familiar song played off key. Crowley was a bureaucrat. He greased the cogs with the occasional corpse, but that was a thin act, barely enough to retain some semblance of power. Dean didn’t respect the guy enough to follow his orders, let alone feel the tugging at his heart like the satisfaction of duty. He didn’t serve some feeble, fungible politician. His calling was more profound than that.

“No,” Dean’s voice was a bit disappointed as he shook his head. “That’s not right…. Not you.”

Crowley’s eyes flicked around the room to quickly check the reactions of his guards and assistants before sitting up straighter on the throne and forcefully repeating, “You serve your king.”

“I serve....” He played with the phrase. It was true, but he didn’t want to stay there and be dragged into anything to do with Crowley. The guy wanted to control him for petty ends; to wield such an undeserved weapon—and the fact was that until Dean knew what the feelings written into his broken soul meant, in some ways he was vulnerable. He turned and started walking toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going? You are bound to this realm, to an eternity of service. Do you think you can live up there on your own? Go ahead and kill a whole orphanage for kicks. You won’t feel a bloody thing,” Crowley hissed. “You’re nothing more than a soldier now, and I am your king. You need my hand on your leash, tossing you the scraps and calling you a good boy.”

Dean was a little surprised by the fact that he wasn’t disemboweling the former Crossroads demon. The statement had been insulting, but something in it had rung true. He was meant to serve. He could feel it in his core. The only problem was that he couldn’t reconcile that compulsion with serving Crowley. There was something wrong with the way everything had been framed. 

In an unexpectedly quiet voice Dean replied, “I need to think.” As he left, all eight guards stationed between him and the door had the good sense to get out of his way.

* * *

Dean sat in the bar. The alcohol hardly even affected him, leaving him in a state of miserable sobriety. It felt like every moment was gnawing at him, boring deep into his heart, leaving him more empty by the minute. He could feel himself growing desperate. If he was lost out there without something to fill the void for too long, he might damn well go crawling back to Crowley, willing to try anything to end it.

He tried to find some sort of satisfaction in one of his old favorite pastimes: sex. At first he started tamely, in familiar territory, trying to rekindle lost feelings. He picked up women at bars, but eventually he moved on to men and more. None of sexes really spoke to him; it was all just okay. In an attempt to provoke stronger feelings, he dabbled in group sex, bondage, pain play, and other fetishes. After a week he stepped up his efforts, taking victims by force, often torturing them to death when he was done.

Dean rolled over on the bed to grab a cigarette he’d laced with a random cocktail of toxins. He lit it and took a few puffs, curious to see if the new concoction would give him a buzz. The sheets were soaked with blood from the two corpses lying beside him; it was refreshingly cool against his skin on the warm summer night. He turned on the news to watch the latest report on the manhunt for him. The artist’s sketch didn’t quite capture his eyes, but it wasn’t too bad. A lesser demon might dump the body in order to evade hunters, but that was his fucking body and he would run it into the ground before abandoning it. Anyway, he was sure that Sam was watching this parade of destruction. He wanted his little brother to wake up every morning to be reminded of him. That was one of the only truly rewarding parts of his current game.

It really was a fucking game, one he played alone with no score or chance at victory. His efforts to chase cheap thrills were getting him nowhere. And in the back of his brain he could feel an unpleasant truth solidifying and creeping up on him. Crowley was right; he was a soldier. One with no mission, no cause. He was adrift and the only thing he felt was the sneaking suspicion that he was failing.

Dean stood up and stretched before strolling around the cheap motel room. The building was a complete mess: a broken lamp, screws missing from the air vent cover, mildew in the bathroom—hell, when he turned his eyes black he could see old cum stains on nearly every surface. He didn’t bother getting dressed or wiping the blood off his backside; he just wanted to be somewhere else.

He did a quick search on his phone, then teleported to the Musée de l'Orangerie. Sam had once mentioned that Monet’s Water Lilies were his favorite series, so Dean decided to finally see what the big deal was. It was after hours at the museum, so he stared at the massive paintings for nearly an hour, minus the couple minutes it had taken to kill the various museum guards that had interrupted him. The paintings were an icon of beauty and human culture, and he didn’t give a fuck about them. He tried tearing some of them apart, but his indifference didn’t even make the destruction rewarding.

Tossing aside the last hunk of canvas frame, he considered that maybe he wasn’t made for Earth anymore. Crowley might’ve been a shit leader, but otherwise the trip to Hell hadn’t been that bad. He’d killed a few people, earning him a special sort of respect. The demons had generally understood how to treat him, as opposed to sniveling humans who would simply piss themselves at the sight of violence. Things had clicked better downstairs. Maybe Crowley had put the horse before the cart by suggesting that a knight should serve the King. Knights were bound to Hell. They served the realm.

When it came right down to it, he wanted to do something important with his life. He desperately wanted to fill that emptiness inside him. There was this inarticulable desire to honor Hell, but Crowley didn’t feel that—how could he? The King of the Crossroads owed no loyalty to Hell’s true potential. Maybe he could run the books well enough, but there was more to it than arithmetic and technicalities. Dean could feel it in his shattered soul. Being a knight gave him perspective. Hell needed to be saved. 

Dean returned to the shitty motel room, dug through his small duffel bag, and pulled out the First Blade. He hated the thing, not because it had turned him into a monster—that didn’t bother him in the slightest—it was the addiction it had seeded in him. The urge to destroy was sometimes unbearable. He liked cutting a life to ribbons as much as the next demon, but he wasn’t some pathetic slave. He wanted it to be his own choice. Crowley wanted to make him a tool, to use his devotion to the realm for petty gain. No one in the world could begin to understand—well, at least a knight would understand his loyalty to Hell, but they were all dead except for Cain, and that soft traitor had lost the honor of his title. He needed a real knight’s guidance and experience, yet they were all gone. 

Studying the blade, a partially-formed crazy idea crept into his head, but hey, he had nothing better to do. He picked up his duffel, tossed it over his shoulder, then teleported away.

* * *

Sam buried his face in his hands for a moment, then rubbed his bleary eyes. He was seated at one of the tables in the bunker library, attempting to parse patterns in 137 different police reports. Dean had been very busy over the last two months. For the most part he’d been murdering people, with or without raping them beforehand. He’d also committed minor acts of destruction, though his most recent spotting made Sam deeply uncomfortable.

His laptop was open, playing the security footage on a loop. It was unmistakably Dean, albeit in his boxers with tacky blood in his hair and meager coverings. He’d gone to visit one of Sam’s favorite paintings and destroyed it. There was no way it was a coincidence, that Dean had just picked a random museum to attack. Prior to that he hadn’t targeted something Sam valued; the personal nature of the act opened up terrifying possibilities. And yet, as he watched the uncut clip, Sam noticed something odd about the portion that hadn’t made the evening news: Dean had actually studied the artwork for an incredibly long time prior to destroying it. In turn, Sam had studied the pensive expression on his brother’s face for nearly two hours, but try as he might, he couldn’t find any softness or remorse in his brother’s features.

The video was from four days ago, and since then Dean had dropped completely off the map. It was terrifying, imagining all the things that silence could mean. That long, contemplative stillness, coming from such a brutal killer, it made Sam feel ill. Being one of the few people that had an intimate knowledge of this monster and so far being helpless to stop him, it sometimes woke him in the night. Sam would toss and turn in his bed, waking up to sweat-soaked sheets. He’d done that just a few hours earlier. He washed his face, trying to quickly purge the haunting images of his dreams, then he’d gone to the library to get to work. Another dreadful day in another dreadful week, hunting the ghost of his brother.

As he watched the video for the ninth time, Jody walked into the library. She’d come down for a visit two days earlier. He might’ve been a bit single-minded most of the time, but he was still deeply grateful to have her there. Castiel was frequently out, trying to gather intel from angelic contacts, leaving Sam to wallow in the bunker alone. So Jody’s presence was very welcome. She placed a bowl of chicken noodle soup down on the table beside his research, then rested her hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got to eat.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had nutrition that wasn’t in the form of a bar, but that didn’t stop him from replying, “I’m okay.”

“Sam, decades of con jobs or not, you aren’t smooth enough to pull one over on me. I have eyes, you know.” She kissed the top of his head, then added, “And take a damn shower.”

He couldn’t help but subtly smile as he rolled his eyes at the comment. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Bite me.” She gave his shoulder one last squeeze before closing his laptop and sitting down at the table.

He ate a few spoonfuls while she watched him like a hawk. The fact that she was there was deeply comforting. Despite the horror show that had become his life as of late, there was still some warmth and stability. He missed his dad, Bobby…, Dean— but in many ways Jody had become family. God, he’d needed family.

“Thanks again for coming,” he told her.

“You boys have been there for me plenty of times.” Her eyes passed over the grotesque pictures, then turned to focus on Sam. “We’ll find him and try that cure of yours.”

“It might not work.”

“Then we’ll keep trying,” she offered as an overly optimistic alternative. “And in the meantime we can keep him somewhere where he can’t hurt anyone else.”

As soon as they’d had confirmation that Dean was a knight of Hell, Sam and Castiel had spent nearly a whole week reinforcing the dungeon in the bunker basement, making sure that he couldn’t escape the small prison once placed inside. Getting him there would require some finesse: a high-powered stunning spell, a purified-blood and grace tranquilizer, and a set of salted, warded manacles. It’d be a highly dangerous mission and a pain in the ass for sure, but it was the best option they had.

In an attempt at lightening the mood a bit, Sam asked, “How’s Alex?”

“Holding up,” Jody replied before adding, “Crashed the Subaru last week. She’s working as a temp at the local clinic to pay the repair bill. It’s only $500 to cover it, but I think she’ll keep at it afterwards. She likes helping people.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.” She nodded to herself. “There’s hope yet.”

There were a few seconds of silence as their eyes settled back on the grisly photographs and police reports between them. Sam closed the folder containing a copy of the police report describing a particularly gruesome evisceration.

Jody scooted forward in her chair, then rested her hand on his wrist. “We have the cure. There’s a way back from this.”

“And if we get Dean back, what’s left of him?” Sam let out a long sigh. “He’ll be devastated, that he did this.”

“You came back from a lot,” she countered.

He stared at nothing in particular as his mind drifted off to the many horrific acts he’d committed or otherwise been responsible for. Countless people had died in the leadup to the Apocalypse; that weight was less tangible than the thirty-one innocent people he’d killed while soulless. And he wasn’t sure how many humans had been killed during his blood addiction, mere bystanders as he drank from them like a vampire. All that shame still hung on him, especially in his darkest moments, though he’d learned how to put on an occasional smile and keep placing one foot in front of the other. He couldn’t tell where the line was between a coping mechanism and an act. The blurred border was too unpleasant to consider closely.

“I’m not exactly the posterboy for mental health,” he replied, painfully aware that he was repeating his brother’s assessment of him.

“Yeah. You’re exceptional.” Jody stood up, then pushed the remainder of the chicken soup toward him. “Finish your damn dinner.” She gave him a pat on the back as she started heading towards the quarters wing. 

Sam repacked all the files, pushing them across the table to be as far away from him as he could without getting up. He opened his laptop and started playing “Clair de Lune” to help him relax to whatever extent possible. As he dropped down various windows, he caught a glimpse of Dean contemplating the Water Lilies. For a split second, all the atrocities slipped away and the man in the video appeared to be quite thoughtful—he truly was. That was what made him so terrifying. 

He dropped down the video, leaving only the gentle music to keep him company as he finished the now-cold soup. It took a little effort but he tried to clear his head by focusing on nearly anything that wasn’t related to Dean. The rich wooden bookcases surrounding him had countless invaluable tomes of knowledge, releasing the divine scent of old books. The tabletop lamps’ glass shades gave the places a warm glow. It really had become a home to him over the last couple years, and thankfully it was safe. When he finished his dinner, he climbed the staircase to the front door, double-checking the protective warding that defended it from demons, including knights of Hell. Everything was still in place.

As he went to head back downstairs, he walked by the small chessboard-table just inside the door and stopped to consider it for a moment. He picked up the black knight piece, then stared at it thoughtfully. It was the literal dark horse. The king might be the target. The queen might be the most dangerous. The others—they were forgettable; hell, he often overlooked the bishop as a pawn. But the knights, their erratic movements had always instilled a bit of fear in him. As long as he could remember, in every game, he had worried he would miscalculate the moves and a knight would devastate him. He carefully returned the piece to the board, but a small amount of tension lingered in him. There really was a knight out there to worry about. 

* * *

Dean made a few quick adjustments to the alignment of several still-moist bones, then consulted the five sheets of paper covered in hastily scribbled notes. He could barely read the handwriting of the fourth professor he’d coerced into helping him, but nothing was so illegible that he was concerned. A thin layer of grime covered the white marble of the abandoned mausoleum. Several of the stained glass windows had been broken, allowing thorny vines to intrude into the deathly place. Most importantly, in the center of the floor was a six-foot-diameter reflecting pool. It had taken a hell of a lot of humans to fill the damn thing with blood. He’d never actually noticed how much of an adult was just chunky meat, which, after some trial and error, evidently wasn’t worth the effort of juicing. But with a little luck it’d be worth that work.

He stood at the edge of the basin, then held out the First Blade. The words of the incantation were nonsense to his ears, but as he spoke, he forced all of his conviction into willing the ritual to succeed. He cut along his wrist, letting the blood flow out into the large pool below. It had taken several weeks of research—well, torturing experts on demonology and interplanar theory—to get to that point. He was asking a lot of a ritual that had only previously been used under less dramatic circumstances, but he was a more powerful demon than the last sap that had managed it. Through sheer force of will he would pull off a miracle, or if it failed, he’d just try over and over again. He was eternal now, unintimidated by everything except for aimlessness. There was no threat or consequences to trying. The only thing that was important was to achieve his goal.

When he was done, he placed the blade back into his bag, then knelt by the pool. He watched the dark red surface of the liquid. Something deep inside his soul stirred, giving him hope for the first time. In that moment he didn’t feel so alone. Before he could marvel at the incredible feeling, a few small ripples formed in the blood. He smiled as a woman sat up, emerging slightly from the crimson pool. She was beautiful as she’d always been, brilliant red hair nearly blending with the layer of blood coating her naked body. Despite any surprise or confusion she might’ve been experiencing, her face and posture exuded pure confidence.

Abaddon watched him for a moment before saying, “Of all the people to bring me back, I wouldn’t have guessed that it’d be you.”

He blinked his eyes black as he gave her a playful smile. Her mouth opened slightly at the realization of what had happened, but she didn’t speak. She was too busy studying the new knight of Hell. She stood up and walked through the knee-deep pool of blood to stand in front of him. The way he was kneeling before her, his eyes were level with her waist. He fought the primitive instinct to stare at her bare crotch only a foot in front of him and instead turned his eyes up to look at hers. She was so much more than a body; that’s why he’d resurrected her.

“I need....” He struggled to find the words. His former self might’ve teared up from the intensity of his distress, but he mostly wanted to pull the building down to its foundation. “Everything is wrong. I’ve tried to make this feeling go away.” He lifted up his hands, following some impulse to grab her arm, desperate to make her understand, but he hesitated. Instead he gestured in a random direction as he continued, “Hell’s in a coma and no one is doing a fucking thing about it. I-I can feel it suffering! It’s my job to protect it and I don’t know how. No one is listening! No one knows what to do! No one will tell me what to do to save it!”

Abaddon reached down towards him. He stopped himself from pulling away from her out of habit. So much had happened since they’d tried to kill each other. That was another lifetime, for both of them. She cupped his cheek with her blood-soaked hand, then guided him to stand before her.

In a quiet, sincere voice she said, “I understand. I feel it too.” She looked him in the eyes. “Do you know what I am?”

“You’re a knight, like me.”

“Yes and no.” She stepped out of the pool of blood to stand in front of him, only a few inches apart. Her arms moved to rest on his shoulders, nearly embracing him. “I am the Knight Captain of Hell. I’ve held this position since I drove Cain’s weakness from our ranks.” Her eyes watched him with an odd sort of sympathy. “You’re so young. I remember when I first ascended—how confusing it was then. And now, with Hell in this pathetic state, our charge needs us, more than ever.”

Dean’s heart was pounding. He was so relieved. There was finally someone else who understood. If he’d been human he might’ve even wept. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him, and kissed her. She bit his lip as she tore open his shirt, then his pants before hitting him hard in the chest, knocking him backwards onto the marble floor. Before he could get up, she stepped forward, resting one bare foot on his torso. He looked up at her blood-soaked, naked body, caught between intimidation and arousal. His dick was exposed and getting harder by the moment.

“I’m your commander,” Abaddon told him. “Never forget that.”

Without breaking his gaze, she knelt down, straddling him. Her hand gripped his dick as she watched him. She lowered herself onto him, pressing him deep into her. His head leaned back against the mausoleum floor. Her grip on him was so tight that he could feel his flesh bruising and it just made him want her more. His fingers desperately dug into her thighs. She rode him harder than he knew was possible, but he could take it; he craved it, the manifestation of their mutual power. 

Between bucks, she told him, “Together, we’ll restore Hell.”

Those words, that promise, it was everything he’d sought. Dean couldn’t take it anymore. He came in her. It was the most satisfying moment of his entire existence as a demon—and it was just the beginning.

* * *

After an hour of almost-primal fucking that broke nearly every fixture in the mausoleum, they were both tacky with drying blood and cum, so they decided to clean up a bit. The two of them teleported straight to the presidential suite at the Ritz Carlton in Paris. 

They arrived in the luxurious accommodations to find a middle-aged businessman doing a line of cocaine off a naked woman’s ass while two other scantily-clad women watched. Drugs, paddles, gags, whips, a wealthy pig with a stupid-fucking-look on his face—the nude woman was even already handcuffed. It was such an unexpected treat that Dean laughed.

Abaddon quickly snapped the neck of the screamer in the group, silencing the others, then the pair went about with their fun. Dean decided to challenge his demonic fortitude with half a gram of cocaine. The buzz was fine, but didn’t hold a candle to the joy of watching Abaddon force the remaining two women into a knife fight while handcuffed together. It was better than any boxing or wrestling match he’d ever witnessed. And after jovially watching it from the couch with the pasty, trembling man, Dean tested an urban legend he’d always been curious about—unfortunately, the blood loss from the affluent shit having his lower ribs ripped out left the man unable to survive, let alone maintain an erection.

Once the previous occupants were tossed out of the way, the two knights partook in a shared shower. The water ran red, finally purging them of all the blood from Abaddon’s resurrection and the light entertainment. Dean could hardly contain himself. As he fucked her against the shower wall, he kissed her with more passion than he’d ever known. Even more incredibly, she returned that desire, not letting him finish until she’d taken him for all he was worth. 

Afterwards, he lay on the plush king bed, admiring her. She stood naked, watching the news on the massive television for a moment. One of the stories was about the manhunt for Dean. His long list of accomplishments flowed across the screen, a seemingly endless list of charges. She nodded in acknowledgment of his work, then turned off the television and crawled onto the bed.

“You’ve been busy,” she told him.

“It didn’t accomplish anything,” he replied. “A few humans are dead, some are scared. I was so fucking lost, just killing time.”

Abaddon caressed his cheek, then down his chest. “You’re powerful, but you’re still so young. There’s so much for you to learn. Really, it’s incredible that you even brought me back.”

“I tried so many things. You were the only one that really made sense.” Dean’s mouth wavered for a moment before he said, “I’m not used to having feelings like this. The Mark, it made me want to destroy, but this is different. I’m part of something bigger, part of Hell, part of….” 

He didn’t want to articulate the connection between them and have it be perceived as some romantic sentiment. For all practical purposes, they were the last of their kind. His twisted soul knew that. He’d been able to tell that the resurrection ritual had worked even before she’d moved because deep down he’d stopped feeling entirely alone. It wasn’t anything as ridiculous or fluffy as them being soulmates, but there was finally another person who felt the same inarticulable duty to Hell. Suddenly being linked to such a profound force, and, even tenuously, to such a powerful woman—he was a bit daunted, but desperate for any scrap of guidance she’d give him.

He took her arm and dragged his lips along the inside of her wrist before telling her, “I’m ready. Tell me what we do. Teach me.”

Her eyes glinted at the invitation. “Lesson one: when I tell you to kill someone, I don’t want you to ask me how like some sort of mindless drone. You’re a knight of Hell. You’re an artist, not a tool or slave. I want you to find your voice.”

Her words seemed to speak directly to the wrongness that he’d felt at Crowley’s demands that Dean serve him. She wanted to preserve who he was, his individuality. He nodded, appreciating the sentiment, but in some ways that freedom to be himself was intimidating. His entire world had been turned upside down by his transformation. He didn’t know who he was anymore.

“I know what I am. I know who I was….” He paused for a moment trying to reconcile the many sides of him. There were so many pieces of the old him that he wasn’t sure whether they remained a part of him. “When I was human I used to make jokes because I was scared.”

“Do you feel scared now?”

He may have had a monumental task ahead of him, but he wasn’t worried. Now he had help. And nothing beyond the prospect of returning to his previously-aimless state worried him. God himself could come down to fight him and Dean would attack without hesitation. He had nothing to lose but his purpose and that was growing more mature with every passing moment. Fear wasn’t even remotely in his mind or heart.

“No. Not even a little.” 

“What do you feel?”

“Rage, amused—“

She raised an eyebrow at him and smiled. “Amused?”

“It’s all so fucking absurd. The way the humans stroll through their lives, goddamn lemmings. They’re the height of civilization? A blanket with arm holes or a painting of some woman with a weird smile—fuck them.” He hadn’t had anyone to talk to about this before, to force him to refine the confusing feelings into words. As he described how stupid the human species was, he could better appreciate what distinguished demons from them. “They don’t have clarity; they don’t have shit. We’re stronger, smarter, older—we’re the real top of the food chain.”

Her fingertips dragging down his chest and past his belly button, briefly teasing him with her touch. “What about angels?”

A wicked grin spread across his face at the thought of Heaven’s pathetic state. Thousands of angels had died during or after the recent fall. Those who had survived were weakened and without leadership, barely having returned to Heaven after that mess with Metatron. “They’re nothing to us,” he purred. “They’re too busy trying to put out their own fires. Hell is the last thing on their minds. They won’t get in the way of our plans.”

“Beautiful.” She ran her fingers through his hair as she studied his face, almost searching for something. “Enraged, amused, fearless. How else do you feel?”

“I feel….” He struggled for a moment to find a way to put it into words. “I feel hungry. I want to hold a life in my hands and dig my claws into its flesh. I want to feel it writhe, hear it scream, share that purity, then I want to tear out its throat with my teeth.”

“Such a quick death?” she asked with a playful smile, then kissed him slowly but with a passion that started making him hard. After a long while, she bit his lip, then leaned her head back. “You’ve got to remember to play with your food.”

“I’ve killed so many demons that never got to the end of their evil monologue,” he rebutted. “If I’m gonna kill, I’ll kill. I won’t let some hunter take it from me like a fucking amateur.”

Abaddon climbed on top of him and started grinding against him, enticed by his words. She nibbled his ear, purring, “There’s a time and place for death, and there’s a time and place for torture.”

“I tortured for Alastair,” he replied. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You inflicted physical pain on the already dead—with impressive skill, but that’s only a fraction of true torture.” Her fingers delicately traced his jaw. “Remember: I’m your commander. It’s my job to help you reach your full potential. I’m going to turn you into an artist. I’m going to make you into a true knight.”

“You’re my commander,” Dean agreed. He kissed her, then gripped her ass, pulling her to him as he slid into her. “And I’m gonna make you a queen.”


	2. The Rescue

Sam was out on his morning run, trying to clear his mind. There was still a delicate dew on the grass and leaves of the trees. The lingering fog had a golden glow thanks to the sunrise in the distance. It was picturesque but for the unease that he had brought with him. He had even changed his route, away from the shops Dean knew he frequented on his jogs, instead skirting the nearby forest.

There had been too much silence. Every day that passed without a massacre or Dean’s face turning up on the news meant another day of Dean working at something. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind that his brother had found a way of stepping up his game; he just couldn’t envision what that entailed.

As he jogged, Sam saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He’d been a fool to try preserving that routine as a small source of comfort. In a single heartbeat, he’d drawn Ruby’s knife from his fanny pack and held it up, ready to fight.

There was a doe standing in a grouping of trees about forty feet from the trail. Sam’s heart was pounding as he watched the deer, eyes locked. His hand was trembling slightly from the adrenaline and fear. Seeing his own hand holding the weapon out at such a beautiful creature, it shook him. The image of Dean tearing apart works of art—ones precious to Sam—those images crept into his mind. He lowered the knife, then quickly ran from that place, where he’d let his fear of Dean reach him.

When he got back to the bunker he rechecked the protective warding before taking a long shower. He let the warm water run over him for as long as he dared. Getting back to work meant digging through the grimmest corners of the internet looking for anything horrific enough that it might be Dean. And yet, hiding from the reality of the situation meant that his brother would continue to go unchecked. He turned off the water, tried to rub the fatigue and stress from his face, then grabbed a towel.

He’d always known violence. It had been a part of his life as long as he could remember. Yet only in the last few weeks had he started having violent dreams. Years ago, there had been the visions portraying ghastly deaths, but they were different. Now his own imagination had begun rendering the mutilated corpses in full, multisensory detail. 

Several of the victims had had photographs of their families in their wallets, so Dean had removed their eyelids and placed the photos within view on the nightstand. After some apparent experimentation, he’d settled on high-tension steel wire to bind his victims wrists and ankles, resulting in the wire gradually cutting and peeling back their skin as they struggled or as his body moved them back and forth. Some had long slices down their backs, with the skin pulled up in unusual ways. At first the partial flaying hadn’t made sense, but the medical examiner for the tenth victim with this treatment took casts of the weird gaps between the skin and muscles. They were in the shape of hands, slipped inside the victim’s flesh, holding onto their hips while they were tied to the bed—

While pushing aside a few crime scene photos to make room for his laptop and third cup of coffee, Sam recognized the decapitated woman from last night’s dream. Evidently, he’d looked at that picture a few too many times.

Rather than jumping straight back into corpses, Sam scrolled through the latest posts on the hunting forum for bragging about kills. Rationally, he knew that Dean wouldn’t have been killed so easily. Even as a human he had been more dangerous than nearly everyone else on Earth. The idea that he might be taken out as a knight was beyond unlikely. But some churning anxiety made him check all the same. If that really turned out to be the cause of Dean falling off the radar he would cry, caught between frustration and relief.

Some time later, Castiel entered the bunker. He descended the staircase with an almost fatigued heaviness, then went to the library and took a seat across the table from Sam. He had been gone for over a week running down a few leads. The angel’s expression was more unreadable than usual; it was bad news.

Sam looked up at him, too observant to feel very encouraged. “Any word?”

“My angelic contacts are few and even they are reluctant to help.” He looked at Sam with an uneasiness that was disheartening. “Taldiel had already heard of Dean’s transformation. The fallen angels are talking about the new knight of Hell.”

“What’s the prognosis?”

“The majority opinion is that they’d like to kill him.” Castiel rocked his head back and forth. “Query as to whether that’s probable, let alone a concern.”

“You think the fall left them that injured?”

The angel considered the question for a few seconds before answering. “My siblings are significantly weaker than normal. Heaven has been retaken, but after so much loss that many of the survivors are hesitant to return to Earth. Meanwhile Hell has just gained a powerful weapon.”

“We don’t know that he’s working for Hell.”

“Your brother was independent, but Dean isn’t your brother anymore. He’s a knight. He’s a servant of the Abyss.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck.  He didn’t want to imagine that scenario. It was one thing to have Dean running around as an unaffiliated agent of chaos, but having him associated with Hell, rightly or otherwise, was problematic.  They’d been hoping that the angels might be a minor ally despite any lingering animosity towards Castiel. In reality it looked as though to the extent they were in the picture at all it was in a race to get to Dean.

“I don’t suppose they would give us a head start?” Sam asked. “Curing him would be just as effective at taking the new knight off the field.”

“It appears that some of my siblings find it….” He tried to find the right way of expressing the unpleasant turn. “Unseemly that the Righteous Man, the true vessel of the Archangel Michael—he’s walking the Earth with the emblem of Hell on his broken soul.”

“Well, they can get in line about the hurt feelings,” said Jody as she walked into the library, drawing the others’ attention.

Castiel tilted his head while furrowing his brow in confusion. “Hurt feelings? What has he done to you?”

Jody leaned against the other table so that she could face both of them. “He took Dean.”

Sam looked up at her with a profound sympathy. The three of them were all striving to bring his brother back alive, to free him from a damnation that had been inflicted on him. In theory, there was a cure, or at least the possibility of a way to save him. They just needed to locate and capture the beast before they could attempt to uncover the man buried inside.

“Dean is in there, right?“ Sam asked, then pursed his lips while trying to not look at any of the photos on the table. He remembered the way Crowley’s humanity had peeked through during the third trial. More than that, he remembered the helplessness that he’d felt, being conscious while Lucifer had used his body to commit atrocities. Or maybe it was a closer experience to when he’d lost his soul; he’d become a single but different version of himself. Rubbing his damp eyes as he replayed the image of Dean studying the Water Lilies in his mind. “Suppressed or transformed, whatever.”

“He….” Castiel hesitated in an unnerving display of his own uncertainty over the reality of the situation. “He changed—“

“He’s still changing,” Jody corrected. “Maybe he got turned into a demon that night, but it didn’t end there.” She grabbed a handful of the crime scene photos, featuring dead sexual partners, and laid them out in chronological order on the table for the others to see. “He was escalating, experimenting.” She pointed to the progression of photos, depicting several techniques of torture that had been abandoned after a few attempts. “Hell, he’s practically a teenager.”

Sam furrowed his brow at the thought. “A teenager?”

“Well, not a human one.” She shrugged. “I’m just saying, he didn’t get flipped like a switch. He’s growing up.”

“His behavior is even more extreme than most fully matured demons,” Castiel replied.

“He isn’t just a demon. He’s a knight of Hell.”

Sam muttered, “With all the knowledge and stubbornness of Dean.” His eyes settled on a collection of male victims, many of which had been sexually assaulted. In a hesitant voice he said, “He wasn’t ever into men.”

He hated to sound like he was suggesting some relationship between Dean’s moral alignment and new sexual orientation, but they needed to address the discrepancy. If there was a chance that the change could give them insight it had to be mentioned. Before he could find the words to explain that he wasn’t proposing some sort of causality Castiel interrupted him.

“Dean was also attracted to men while he was alive,” Castiel corrected. “He didn’t like people to know, but he had confided that in me.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at the revelation. “So he was in the closet, but now he just doesn’t care what anyone else thinks?”

“That would be a reasonable assumption.”

Jody sighed. “He really is a teenager.”

Castiel subtly rolled his eyes at the characterization. “If you insist, but he’s one that has the training of a killer, and a master sadist in the form of Alastair. He is handsome, charming, and doesn’t tire. He could leave hundreds of bodies every day in his wake.”

Sam softly tapped his fingers on the edge of his laptop as he mused, “So what is he doing that’s distracting him from all this fun?”

* * *

It only took about three hours to seize Hell. Crowley had made the mistake of figuratively leaving the door open for Dean’s inevitable, groveling return. In theory it wasn’t a significant risk. If Dean had returned as an aggressor alone he would have eventually been subdued by the hundred demon guards  between the gates of Hell and the throne room . And there had been no reason to believe that he would resurrect someone who he had not only killed, but someone who was arguably more powerful than him. It would’ve been an insane move, one that he had taken without hesitation.

Cutting through the horde of enemies, it had been too long since he’d felt that alive. Moving together through the madness, dropping so many bodies that great halls of Hell had become littered with winding rivers of blood and flesh, it felt like a dance. As they worked their way toward the heart of Hell, he kept stealing glances at Abaddon. He’d lost count of how many guards he’d killed, and yet every time he watched her, she was slicing through them twice as fast as him. 

His years of combat experience plus his newfound strength had made him a force of nature, but she flowed through the battlefield with the elegance of a timeless  elemental, the very angel of death . She was ruthless perfection. Her blood-and-ash-kissed skin glistened. Unbridled strength radiated off of her. Watching her crush the skull of an enemy one-handed, barely sparing a glance as she marched with pure conviction—he was in awe. Never in his life, living or dead, could he remember being so captivated by someone.

Crowley was gone, having fled before they reached the throne room. Part of Dean was disappointed to find his on-and-off ally missing, though he couldn’t tell if he was let down by not engaging in some banter or by not being able to murder him. He was a little shit, but a sneaky one that could cause headaches if he chose to be so ambitious. It felt more likely that he’d hide on that pisshole of a planet, just as he’d cowered in the shadows while evading Lucifer. Dean’s lips thinned subtly; Crowley had conspired to kill Lucifer. That’s how they’d met.

With the overthrown king on Earth and no way of knowing exactly where he’d touched down, there was less urgency. It’d take time for him to establish himself and make allies against them. He was a problem for another day—one not too far away, but there was time to celebrate a bit. They’d earned it.

Abaddon sat down on the throne of Hell. The pure ruthless beauty that radiated off of her from the seat of power, it made Dean feel more at peace. Her strength and authority nearly grounded him. He casually approached her, clothes heavy with blood, boots squeaking on the stone floor. She was plenty wet herself and it didn’t detract a thing. She was his queen, without a doubt in his heart or mind. When he knelt before her, she reached forward to caress his cheek, causing him to lean into her touch.

“This is  _ our _ victory,” she told him.

“It isn’t done yet.” He placed his hand on her knee. “How can I serve you next?”

He couldn’t tell whether he wanted her to order him to fuck her or kill a thousand enemies. Either one would be pure bliss. Anyway, he’d get around to the other in time.

Abaddon thought for a moment before inviting him to partake in another lesson. “What would you do first?”

“Kill our enemies,” he replied without hesitation.

The corner of her lip curled at his suggestion. “And who are our enemies?”

“Everyone.” He wasn’t even sure if he was being hyperbolic. Aside from her, he couldn’t think of a person he had confidence in, and without that trust a person was either prey or a threat.

She actually chuckled with delight at his blunt answer. “You’re the cutest.”

If anyone else had called him cute he would’ve murdered them on the spot, but coming from her it felt like a compliment.

“Tell me some of the types of people who might be a nuisance,” she encouraged him. She wanted details to form a strategy with. God she was attractive.

“Hunters,” he replied, eager to show her another aspect of his value. “Nearly all of them are idiots, but they know what we are and they’ll fight us until their last man.”

“How many are there these days?”

After a thoughtful pause to extrapolate some numbers, he told her, “Hundreds, a thousand tops—in the U.S. No clue how the rest of the world works.”

She waved over a minion. “I want intel on the hunter presence, everything we have right now and more as it comes in.”

“Yes,” answered the minion as he nodded and attempted to back away.

Dean teleported behind the pleb, grabbed him by the back of the neck, then slammed him forward. The demon was crumpled on the stone floor, blood pouring from his broken nose. Dean held him down in a pose resembling groveling. “She’s your queen. Show her respect.”

“Yes, sir,” the underling sputtered through blood and spittle. “Right away, your highness.”

Dean continued to hold him down for a moment while looking up at her. Abaddon gifted him with a content smile that filled him with pride. He subtly chewed his lower lip suggestively before finally releasing the minion to scurry away. After dealing with the insubordination, he walked back over to Abaddon and stood before her, only a pace from the throne.

She reached out and stroked her hand down his chest and thigh, petting him. “Are you having fun?”

“Absolutely,” he answered. The very environment of Hell seemed to give him strength, and tearing through so many people, he damn near had a spring in his step. “I feel like I could take on the world.”

“In time,” she purred. “For now we have a lot of work to do. We have to save Hell, make it strong again.”

He could understand the importance of dominating and fortifying their home. Earth would wait. It’d always be there for them. The Abyss needed their attention; he just didn’t have the personal experience to know where to begin. “What can I do?”

Abaddon beamed up at him. “If we’re going to strengthen Hell, we’ll need resources: weapons, magic, minions, intelligence— We need to rebuild this court. When Crowley was playing at being king, there was only his ego filling this room.” She looked around the largely empty chamber with a pensive expression. “Our realm used to have leadership… but now it’s destroyed. There aren’t any sages. The temples are empty. All of our princes and princesses are dead. We need to restore so much.“

Dean took her hand in his. “I know one place to start.”

* * *

Sam looked at the two piles consisting of their collection of crime scene reports. After nine days of silence, in the last 36 hours there had been a massive spike in the number of brutal killings matching his brother’s MO across the continental United States. The mobile massacre was traveling in a wiggling trail along roads and highways. Dean was back and on a road trip. Plotting out his course, it was clear that soon he would be faced with the choice of heading into Kansas or swinging wide of his home state. After turning into a demon, Dean had fled and, as far as anyone could determine, never returned. As much as Sam had been worried that his brother might target him, there hadn’t been anything to indicate Dean was even thinking about him—except the painting. Sam couldn’t tell if there was some strategic motivation for avoiding him or if there was a glimmer of sentimentality left in the knight. He looked at the map, turning his attention to the southern fork leading away from Kansas. That was where he’d confront Dean. He just needed to find him.

As Sam finished carefully packing several syringes of purified blood, his phone started ringing. It was Castiel. The weakened angel had gone to investigate an unusual concentration of demonic omens to see if there was any indication of a knight.  The omens had caught their attention, not because of any significant intensity, but rather because they had appeared on a spectrum that only angels could see. It had seemed like a longshot, though at the time the anomalous demonic traces were the best lead they had. For some reason Castiel hadn’t returned Sam’s texts for the last two days, nearly triggering Sam to go after him, but with the sudden appearance  of a series of victims matching Dean’s style, even closer to the bunker, he hesitated to run in the opposite direction.

Sam answered the call. “Are you okay? Please tell me you’re almost back.”

“Unfortunately, yes and no,” Castiel replied. “I’m alive and currently in western Oregon. I wasn’t the only one investigating the omens. Something unusual is going on.”

Sam pursed his lips. He could feel the bad news coming down the line. ‘Unusual’ was rarely a good thing in their lives. “What happened?”

“Crowley was in the area with a significant number of guards.  It appears that they’re using a new type of protective warding. I doubt they even knew it was detectable; they seemed surprised to see me—” 

“They? Was Dean there?”

“No,” Castiel answered apologetically. “I attempted to speak with Crowley to find out if he knew where Dean was, but before I could, a team of angels attacked, also looking for Dean. I’m injured, but nothing life threatening.”

“Can you travel?” Sam asked, knowing perfectly well that there was no way for the fallen angel to get back to Kansas before Dean had gotten away.

“My wounds should heal in another day or two. I might be—” Castiel stopped, then abruptly asked, “Is he traveling south of Kansas?”

Sam’s stomach knotted, waiting to hear how the other shoe had evidently dropped. “How do you know that?”

There was an unsettling pause of hesitation before Castiel explained, “I questioned one of my sisters who was in the assault team. There are two other teams on Earth; one is investigating a series of omens thirty miles east of Moscow, and the other is tracking something across Colorado towards Oklahoma.”

“They also know he’s south of Kansas.”

“It appears so—wait. Are you planning on pursuing him?”

“He’s close, ” Sam said, not feeling entirely confident in his own reasoning.  “I have the cure ready—“

“Is Jody there?”

“She’s a day out.”

“Wait for her.”

“In a day he could be anywhere. There are angels after him.”

“If he escapes or dies….” In an audibly saddened voice, Castiel continued, “Then so be it, but you shouldn’t pursue him alone.”

Sam rubbed his face as he muttered, “You don’t want him to die either.”

“I don’t want anyone else to die, you included.” He paused a beat, waiting for some reassurance from Sam that he wouldn’t do anything foolish, but it never came. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

Sam hung up, then leaned back in his chair and stared at the cure kit, resting on the other library table. The salted, warded manacles, stunning spell, and tranquilizer—it was already packed and ready to go. Rationally, he knew how difficult it would be for him to capture Dean by himself. Knights were faster, stronger, and more resilient than normal demons—and on top of that, this one was his brother. He knew perfectly well that Dean was a blind spot or weakness to him, and yet he was still family. If Dean was killed as a demon, he’d end up beyond their ability to save. He’d be lost to the Empty. There wouldn’t be a soul in Heaven or Hell, nothing to bargain for or take back by force. A group of Heaven’s elite soldiers were hunting him, without any interest in a cure. Sam grabbed the bundle of supplies and headed for the garage.

He double-checked the superior devil’s trap he’d etched onto the roof of the Impala above the backseat. With a little luck the bag of tricks would sedate Dean enough that the knight wouldn’t be able to or think to kick through the passenger compartment’s ceiling in order to bust the trap and escape. Maybe Sam had defaced Baby’s glossy black paint, but if Dean was around and complaining, then that would be an improvement.

The drive was only five hours, but it was agonizing. He kept listening to different channels on his police scanner app, hoping to catch a break. But the truth was that he shuddered to think of the horrific details that would be broadcast out in the wake of Dean’s destruction. It was one thing to dig through photographs of crime scenes; it was another to walk through the carnage firsthand.

Once he was in range of the regional police frequencies, he began periodically pulling off to the side of the road to check the map. A carjacking here. An assault there. The truly gruesome murders would take time to commit and discover. With each piece of information, Sam revised his course. It felt like he was gaining on Dean, and eventually Sam suspected he might overtake him. 

He sped up to put himself at least fifty miles ahead of the last incident, then pulled off to the side of the road to wait. It took about fifteen minutes of sitting in the dark with his binoculars, watching the horizon, but the moment he saw a 1968 Dodge Charger speeding down the highway at 95 mph, he knew it was Dean. Sam tossed aside the binoculars, then sped after him as best he could. 

He hoped that Dean didn’t notice the tail, or to the extent he did, he didn’t consider it a threat worth investigating. Sure enough, Dean didn’t speed away or attempt to lose him. Equally reassuring was that he didn’t simply teleport into Baby’s shotgun seat and attack. It would literally be as easy as doing that, then yanking the wheel at such a high speed. Sam gripped the wheel a bit tighter as his stomach ached at the thought, but he didn’t let up on his pursuit. 

After about forty minutes of the most stressful driving of Sam’s life, Dean pulled off the highway and headed into a manufacturing area. Sam gave him a bit more of a lead since a tail would be obvious in the quiet neighborhood, but once the head start was sufficiently long, he began driving by parking lots looking for the Charger. Ten minutes of searching didn’t turn anything up. Sam thought that he’d lost him—then he saw a brilliant flash of white light illuminate the windows of a nearby factory.

The angels had found the knight.

Sam hastily parked, grabbed the cure bundle and began preparing it. He’d hardly gotten it sorted out before he ran into the building. Large, industrial canning machines had been ripped from their bolts and concrete foundations, to be thrown across the ground floor. Windows were shattered, scattering pieces of glass everywhere. A five-inch-diameter broken pipe was pouring water down over a catwalk, creating a waterfall. And scattered throughout the scene were dead angels, bodies crumpled atop their skeletal charcoal wings. Dean had killed them all. 

He gripped the angel blade tighter in his offhand while readying the stunning spell with his right.  As soon as he saw the lone figure step out from the shadows, Sam threw the vial containing the stunning spell on the ground. The spell’s wave of silver light hit Dean, knocking him back into a metal cabinet so hard that all the shelves spilled out. Dean was still standing, but hunched forward. He looked up at Sam with an expression of annoyance, before grabbing one of the loose metal shelves and hurling it at  his brother.

Sam barely managed to dodge a direct hit, but a glancing blow caught the bundle of supplies, knocking the tranquilizer and warded cuffs out of reach. Before he could glance over his shoulder to see where the tools had gone, his brother charged at him. Sam held the angel blade up to Dean, stopping him, for the moment. They were at a temporary stalemate… unless Dean decided to test the lethality of angel blades on knights of Hell. In theory, the stunning spell would at least make it so that he couldn’t immediately teleport away. Sam’s mind was racing trying to figure out how to keep him at bay until he reached the other tools.

In an attempt to buy time, Sam told him, “We have a prototype of the cure that we think will work on a knight.”

“A cure? It’s poison.” Dean let out an unamused laugh. “Are you that dumb? You want to make me weak and confused. You want to restart the slow, inevitable death of a human life.”

“This isn’t who you are,” Sam pleaded. “You’re still my brother.”

“I am.” Dean’s voice and expression softened. “I’ll always be your brother.” For a moment, Sam thought that maybe he was getting through to him, but then Dean said, “That’s why I came to get you.”

Sam’s stomach dropped and it felt like all the blood had drained from him. Before he could look around there was a thwack as he was struck in the back of the head. Everything turned black.


	3. The Pet Project

Sam had trouble processing anything beyond his throbbing headache and overall feeling of wrongness. He was cold, but beyond that there was just an instinctual sense that he was in danger, like the tickle of anxiety in the back of his brain. When he opened his eyes, he realized that he was lying naked on a coarse, stone floor. His wrists were bound behind his back with ropes. He slowly lifted his aching head to take in his surroundings.

Dean was standing, leaning casually against the far wall, watching him. His clothes were of an aesthetic that he had never seen his brother wear in life: black leather pants, a dark red button-up shirt, and a tailored, black leather jacket that had small caps on the shoulders almost like a modern doublet. A large, menacing knife was holstered on his hip; the way it was worn with comfort, the blade had probably carved up countless people in the case files in the bunker’s library.

Apart from the two of them, and a thick metal ring affixed to the far wall, there was nothing in the room aside from the door. Every surface was the same featureless, rough, grey stone. There wasn’t even an obvious light source; some sort of otherworldly effect lit the room—hell, that surrounding, soft glow actually left Dean with no visible shadow. It made the moment all the more surreal, triggering the unease of the uncanny valley. That sort of unnatural illumination was only achievable through magic, or worse, it was a property of something other than Earth.

The chill of the ambient air seemed to penetrate to Sam’s core as he realized what had happened. He had been taken to Hell. It wasn’t the Cage, but some intuition or reason screaming in his soul told him that he was downstairs. He was without supplies or resources, in a hostile environment, and at the mercy of someone who appeared to not fully understand the word. As much as he was trying to think his way out of his current predicament, the recent blow to his head and the knight of Hell in the room were making it difficult to strategize.

When Dean saw that his brother was awake, he strolled over, crouched down in front of him and pointed the knife at Sam’s face. “I’m gonna cut off the rope, but before I let you loose—“ He touched the ground, then gestured around them. “You’re in Hell. We’ve cleared out every piece of spellcraft for miles in every direction. There are hundreds of armed guards, locked doors, and hellhounds specifically setup with you in mind, so don’t try to be cute.”

It hadn’t occurred to Sam that his brother might have that much influence, though he supposed the guy was a knight now and knew the King of Hell. And yet, he was kind of surprised that Crowley would’ve turned a blind eye to or helped in Sam’s capture; that didn’t exactly mesh with their tenuous relationship of periodic cooperation. Yes, there had been tensions over Kevin and the First Blade, but things had been almost civil the last half year.

Sam pushed the minor point of confusion from his mind, then replied, “You’re really rolling out the red carpet.”

“We are.” Dean reached over grabbing Sam’s restrained wrists, then began cutting the rope. “We’re going through all this trouble so that you don’t have to be constantly hogtied. But if you cause any problems, well, then there’s a whole long list of people ready to inch-by-inch take off your legs—you don’t actually need your legs. Understood?”

The cool tone and expression on the knight’s face was unmistakable; he was serious.

When the rope was cut, Sam allowed Dean to use the tip of the knife to push him onto his back, then replied, “Understood.”

Dean’s eyes flicked from his brother’s concerned face, down to his chest. He delicately dragged the blade of the knife over to Sam’s anti-possession tattoo. Nodding to the protective warding, he asked, “Does it make you feel safe?”

Sam’s heart was pounding at the thought of how easily that protection could be taken from him and how devastating it might be. He’d been possessed repeatedly before, resulting in considerable trauma. The thought that he might be forced into that again, possibly by his brother, it sincerely scared him. Dozens of terrifying images of how he might be used to commit atrocities drifted through his mind. It had happened before. It could so easily happen again. His body could be used to rape and tear apart another hundred victims, or worse.

He fought past the tightness in his throat to answer, “Not right now.”

Dean patted Sam’s bare chest with his palm. “Smart boy.”

In a desperate move to talk some sense into his older brother, Sam said, “Please, I know deep down you’re a good man—“

Dean rested the knife against Sam’s throat, then replied, “There is no ‘good man’ here. The sooner you figure that out, the less you’ll suffer. Personally—“ He dragged the knife a few times over Sam’s chest, barely breaking the skin enough for blood to well up, gradually making his way toward the anti-possession tattoo. “—I don’t care if you suffer. It’s just part of learning. You fall down; you scrape your knee.” He took another shallow slice. “You talk back—well, it won’t be an open-handed slap this time. It won’t be like when we were kids, because we aren’t kids anymore. I grew up. I figured it out. I know what I am.” Dean considered his words for a moment, then corrected, “I know what I’ve always been, and what I’m not. I’m not a leader. I’m a soldier. That’s fine. We can’t all be Alexander the Great or Hitler. I realized that I needed someone to help me—a companion, a mentor, a partner.”

“Crowley,” Sam guessed.

Dean started laughing. “That egotistical cunt? Coward bolted the second he thought his ass might be on the line.”

Sam stared at him for a moment. He’d been taken alive and unharmed; he’d been sought out. “I won’t work with you—“

Dean grasped Sam’s jaw, then placed the edge of the knife to Sam’s lips, silencing him. He actually shushed his little brother while shaking his head.

“You aren’t my partner,” Dean whispered in his ear. “You’re my gift. She’s my partner.”

Sam’s head was forcibly turned to the side toward the lone metal door, which opened. To his horror, Abaddon walked out. She was wearing a black gown made of leather that draped down her body from sets of silver, claw-like pieces of metal gripping her neck, shoulder, and waist. A cool, confident expression spread across her face the moment she saw him.

Dean had literally destroyed himself in his attempt to stop her. Then, in his madness, he’d brought her back, undoing his sacrifice. Now not only had Abaddon returned, Dean was her accomplice. One knight of Hell was bad enough; two was horrifying. And Dean was the one who possessed the First Blade. Without that or the cure, Sam had no idea how to stop them—not that he was in a position to battle the two of them for anything at the moment. 

Abaddon walked over and gently touched Dean’s cheek, drawing him up to stand beside her. He smiled fiendishly at her before she pulled him into a kiss. Sam’s stomach dropped. Not only were they partners in their conquest, they had some sort of deeper relationship that would be harder to fracture. 

“You’ve done such a good job,” she purred to Dean, lips incredibly close to his, barely breaking their kiss long enough to give him praise. 

Her hand slid down Dean’s torso, into his pants to play with his dick. He groaned a bit as a bulge started forming at her touch. Sam was profoundly uncomfortable, still lying naked on the ground, torn between looking away from the sexual act and keeping his attention on the two threats standing a few feet from him. 

Abaddon broke the kiss to look over at Sam, then told Dean, “There are hardly any scratches on him—for now.”

The elder Winchester hummed with confidence—or maybe it was pleasure. “He can take it.”

They had something in mind for him, probably torture, but Sam didn’t know to what end. The only valuable information he had was the exact composition of the cure, though he wasn’t really sure what a group of demons would want with that.

Sam asked, “What do you want with me? I don’t have anything you don’t already have.”

“That’s not true,” Abaddon replied as she released her partner in order to turn her attention to their prisoner. “You have gifts. There’s no denying that.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t understand.”

She looked down at him like a true prize. It was unnerving to have her visibly sizing him up. He felt painfully aware of his naked state and recoiled to the wall, trying to cover himself all the more. And yet, her explanation made him even more disturbed.

“You’re the last surviving child of our most visionary Prince of Hell: Azazel.”

He felt faint, almost dizzy, like a devastating blow to the gut. That part of his life was done. The horrible chapter had been dead and buried for years. “No.”

“He made you special. That’s something to be celebrated.” She knelt down in front of Sam, then moved to cup his cheek with the same hand that had been fondling Dean. He tried to pull away, but was backed into the wall and couldn’t entirely evade the touch. “You’re a treasure of Hell.”

“I’m not.“ Sam could feel panic growing inside of him at the thought of what they might do. “You don’t want me drinking demon blood—“

“You won’t drink any blood,” Abaddon told him in an oddly gentle voice. “We don’t want to turn you into a mindless parasite. Why would we want to make you weak like that?”

Dean added, “You weren’t drinking blood right after Stanford. You had your powers back then.” The chill that went down Sam’s spine gave him goosebumps. Dean’s lip curled at the visible reaction. “Struck a nerve?”

They were talking about his visions. That’s why they wanted him. It was insane; even if he wasn’t morally opposed to everything the pair stood for, he couldn’t do what they wanted. “I don’t have powers anymore.”

Dean smiled at him, then crouched down beside Abaddon. He rested his knee on top of Sam’s abdomen and grabbed his wrist, pinning the younger Winchester. Sam was painfully aware that the bulge in Dean’s pants hadn’t subsided.

“You’re different, a freak. We’ve both known that for years. You’ve never stopped being one. I see you pretending to be human. It’s an act. We both know it, at least deep down, even if you’ve been at it so long that you even started fooling yourself.” Dean leaned forward, supporting himself above Sam with a single arm, looming over him. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna help you accept your true nature.”

Abaddon pet Dean’s hair, then purred, “That’s right. We’re going to save you.”

* * *

Abaddon whispered something into Dean’s ear. Sam didn’t recognize the language, but the subtle smile of both the knights’ faces indicated some level of subjective playfulness and that Dean understood the rare tongue. Either he’d suddenly gained an interest in languages or his transformation into a demon had granted him more than just strength and immortality. When she was done speaking to her partner, she lightly tugged on his earlobe with her teeth.

Dean’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly as he considered something for a second, then he looked back to her, seemingly for guidance.

“You’re an artist,” she told him. “However you—“

Abaddon’s eyes suddenly turned black and she looked in a seemingly random direction. It was as if she’d heard something that wasn’t there, then he noticed that Dean was being attentive to whatever had just happened. For a moment, Sam considered trying to take advantage of their distracted state, but his brother was still holding a knife to his chest while pinning one of his arms. Instead he opted to try his hardest to fade into the drab scenery.

“I swear,” she muttered. “These pathetic excuses for lieutenants wouldn’t even have brains if they were fist-deep in a fresh skull.”

With his hand that wasn’t holding the knife, Dean softly caressed her cheek, returning her attention to him, then asked, “Do you want me to kill them?”

The warm smile returned to her face at the offer, but she shook her head. “Not all of them. We need infrastructure, and that means minions at all levels. We’ll torture them all, but only execute a few. I’ll show you.” She nodded to Sam, but spoke to Dean. “He can wait.”

Abaddon disappeared, teleporting off to who-knew-where, leaving Dean kneeling alone on top of Sam. He picked up the remnants of cut rope, stuffed them into his pocket, then finally looked Sam in the eye again.

“Gotta go answer a summons real quick.” He resheathed the knife, then pushed off of the cuts on Sam’s chest while getting into a standing position. “In the meantime, make yourself at home. I’ll be back to play soon.”

As soon as Dean blinked away, Sam got up and ran to the metal door. He tried it, but, unsurprisingly, the damn thing was locked. Despite the uniform, unremarkable appearance of the ten-foot-by-ten-foot cell, he paced around it looking for seams or weak points. Aside from the metal ring, which he tugged at a few times, there was literally nothing in there. He didn’t even have a sleeping mat or a bowl to piss in. In a desperate move, he tried knocking on the walls, hoping to find a thin area. Unfortunately, the dull thudding it returned could’ve easily been the sound of meters of solid rock.

It certainly appeared that he was trapped, and worse, he was in the hands of psychotic killers, one of which was trained by Hell’s most notorious torturer. And on top of that, Sam wasn’t really sure what they wanted from him. There had been mention of Azazel and his association. He had no idea what exactly that meant for Hell’s new power couple, but it didn’t seem as though they were about to kill him for it. They wanted to save him, whatever the fuck that meant.

Towards the end, Abaddon had seemed to have been egging Dean on or almost encouraging him, like a mentor. It made some sense. Jody had speculated that Dean was trying to figure himself out, and he’d just admitted that he was a soldier instead of a leader. He was gravitating to a powerful woman who could give him answers, as a knight herself.

Sam paced the cell for what felt like at least a half hour, then he sat down in a corner and watched the door. All he could do was wait. Every breath stretched the half-dozen cuts on his chest, making them sting. The back of his head continued to throb in an oppressive sort of way that made him want to close his eyes with each pulse of pain, but he fought the urge. Eventually the stillness and his headache made him blink slowly.

After an unremarkable blink, he opened his eyes to see Dean was casually leaning against the far wall. The surprise jolted Sam awake, despite the possible low-grade concussion.

“Sorry about that,” Dean apologized.

The knight reached into a small leather bag that had replaced the knife. Sam expected him to pull out some new weapon or implement of pain, but instead he withdrew a walnut. For a moment the move seemed oddly anticlimactic or unintimidating— until Dean cracked the walnut shell with his bare hand. As he started picking through the shell fragments and eating the meat, he commented, “Something that always bugged me: why didn’t you start drinking demon blood when you didn’t have a soul?”

Sam felt a chill run through him at the mention of two different ways that his mind could be tampered with. With Abaddon having been resurrected, it was completely within the realm of possibility that Dean could arrange to have his soul removed. If that was to happen, then it seemed incredibly unlikely that his soulless self would allow himself to have his soul restored a second time. Previously he’d tried to kill his surrogate father in order to avoid it. He didn’t ever want to end up in a situation like that again.

Part of him didn’t want to cooperate, especially to talk about a topic that made him feel so vulnerable, but watching Dean drop the shell pieces to the stone floor, then crack another—he wasn’t sure what another couple blows to the head would do to him. Getting bludgeoned right then on principle sounded like the wrong strategy. 

“I was scared of losing control.”

“That soulless you, he liked control,” Dean agreed, then noted, “Very attractive quality. Unfortunately, I’m guessing he understood loyalty about as well as he understood charity.”

Sam wasn’t quite sure how to interpret the observations. “You don’t want to see him again.”

“At least we can agree on that.” Dean dropped the remaining shell pieces onto the stone floor, then strolled around the cell, dragging his hand along the wall. “Hell is an interesting place. It has a sort of energy in its atmosphere. Demons are stronger here.” He glanced over to meet Sam’s eyes. “You’re stronger here.”

Sam shook his head. “This place isn’t—I don’t—“

Dean suddenly rushed at Sam, causing him to reflexively recoil. He collided with the cell wall and held up his hands defensively, but Dean smacked them to the side, then pressed the fingers of his right hand against Sam’s chest. The full force of his arm, delivered through such a small surface area, felt like it might dig into him as the cuts bled anew. But just before the bones broke beneath his touch, Dean stopped, allowing Sam to sink to the floor as he coughed and gasped for air.

“This is your new home. Even if you don’t believe that, your demonic side knows it. We brought you here to heal that part of you.” Dean grabbed Sam’s head and forcibly turned it to look up at him before making his next point. “We’re doing it slowly and carefully so that you’re still you. Because if you try something crazy, like taking a taste….” He shook his head. “If you thought you were a desperate little addict back then, you have no idea how intense it’ll be down here. The tiniest drop of blood on your lips and you’ll never come back from that. We don’t want to have you go out like that, slowly bleeding to death as you gnaw your hands and feet off, trying to escape your chains in some desperate attempt to get a fix. You hear me?”

Sam furrowed his brow a bit. He would’ve expected them to turn him into an addict, kept on a metaphorical or maybe even literal leash, subjugating himself for a fix. “You aren’t gonna make me into a slave that way?”

“We want you sober.” Dean’s hand cupped Sam’s cheek in an unnervingly tender gesture. “We want you for your mind as much as your powers. Sammy, you’re made for this world.” He tapped a finger against Sam’s temple, sending bursts of pain out from the injury to the back of his head. “You’ve just gotta lose the shackles humanity put on you.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy keeping me pris—“

Dean slapped him in the face, in an act that was more humiliating than harmful, then told him, “We’re helping you face what you’ve been denying your whole life. We’re liberating you. There’s bound to be a little growing pain.”

* * *

Dean couldn’t remember ever being that happy. He had a home, albeit one that needed some improvement, but at least it instilled in him a sense of belonging. He’d found a partner and mentor in an incredible woman. And hopefully his little brother would come around before too long and join them in service of a better Hell. For the first time in his existence, he was starting to see himself having a future.

He felt like he was walking on air as he strolled back to his and Abaddon’s quarters. After a little discussion with the senior torturers at his disposal, he’d finished establishing a baseline regimen for Sam. It wasn’t anything too debilitating. The point wasn’t to destroy him, it was to apply a minimum standard of pressure. From there, Dean could go in to do more precision work, either increasing the punishment, applying tactical questioning, or even provide a more gentle touch.

Upon entering their suite, he saw Abaddon standing beside the small dining table, studying an updated map of Hell. The red ink indicated that their dominion had expanded considerably over the last few days. He stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her.

“Can you feel it?” she asked him, as she turned in his embrace to face him. She touched his chest. “Hell’s heart is beating stronger.”

“I can feel it,” he whispered while leaning in to meet her lips.

As they kissed, he reached up, pushing the silvery claws from her shoulders, causing her dress to collapse to the ground. His palm settled briefly on the soft flesh between her breasts as he took a moment to feel her heartbeat. It was calm and cool as always. She let him pick her up and carry her to their bed, then watched with a sly smile as he stripped to join her.

Afterwards, they lay in bed for a while—not cuddling, but Dean did watch her with an eagerness that might only be matched by that of a puppy. She was flipping through a folder of reports on various missions.

Without looking up, she asked, “How many hunters have we found so far?”

“Last count was about a hundred located. Eight spotted the tails, so our scouts killed them.” His fingers dragged playfully along her thigh. “There are enough networks that we don’t want any slip ups working their way through the grapevine.”

Her lip curled a bit. “Anyone you know?”

“Of course,” he kissed her arm, nibbling just above her elbow. “Gotta start somewhere.”

There was a knock at the door. Dean kissed the back of her hand, then got out of bed. He didn’t bother putting on any clothes before opening the door. For anyone else, nudity might be a symbol of their lack of power, but he had the greatest possible reason to be naked; he had just fucked the queen, and he didn’t care who knew.

The minion stared at his chest, unprepared to meet the Knight’s eyes or look down at his uncovered dick. “Excuse me, sir.” He looked around Dean to address Abaddon. “Your highness. The human prisoner—“

“He isn’t human,” Abaddon corrected. She considered how to categorize him for a moment, then settled on, “He’s a unique creature.”

“Yes, your highness.” The lesser demon nodded nervously. “He’s asking for food and water.”

Dean chuckled. He’d forgotten that that might be a necessity for his brother. Upon reflection it’d been over thirty-six hours since they’d captured him. Sam had probably been holding out under the assumption that he was resisting intentional torture as opposed to a simple oversight. 

He turned back to his queen, then playfully suggested, “The kid’s practically a vegetarian. What about giving him a live bunny?” 

The thought of Sam being met with such a messy option, especially with no tools or fire, was enticingly amusing. He wondered how long his little brother would stubbornly hold out. It probably wasn’t the healthiest to eat raw rabbit meat, but Hell wasn’t completely without medicine or healing magic. At least it’d produce a bit of entertainment. He grinned at the thought of Sam trying to utilize the dead bunny’s skin and fur to cover his dick in some stupid attempt at modesty.

“If he was anyone else, that’d be an inspired idea,” Abaddon told him. “For him, we don’t want to accidentally train him to crave the taste of blood.”

The two of them exchanged a knowing look. They both knew that Sam’s old addiction was a potential pitfall for their plan. Strict rules had been established to keep any sharp objects away from Sam so that he wouldn’t be able to easily open a wound on a guard or torturer—going so far as to even having a minion collect the walnut shell pieces Dean had dropped on the cell floor. It was profoundly reassuring that he seemed to be legitimately terrified of losing himself to his addiction all over again, especially while trapped on a plane where he had no chance of drying out.

Abaddon told the underling, “Give him some food and water. Just make sure he doesn’t die.”

“Yes, your high—“

Dean slammed the door in the demon’s face. “It’s almost like having a pet,” he commented while climbing back into bed.

“Are you going to teach him to play fetch or roll over?” she teased.

“At least to beg.”

Abaddon sat up in the bed and grabbed a crystal goblet of red wine from the nightstand. She took a sip, then asked him, “You really think he’ll be good about the blood?”

“It turns him into something else, what he hates most in himself.” Dean took a moment to search his heart for any doubt, then added, “As much as Sammy is a practical guy, he always has hope. That’s gonna be the thing that ruins him. He already learned the hard way that drinking blood isn’t the fucking martyr play. He’ll hold out, hoping for some other way. We just need to make him see that we’re the other way.”

“Tell me how you’ll break him.”

Dean appreciated that she wanted to know about his project. He knew as well as her that he was still learning, not only about his capabilities as a knight, but also about his resources. As second-in-command of Hell, he had access to subordinates, wealth, magic, and nearly an endless supply of time. It wasn’t like when he’d been torturing souls under Alastair; back then he’d barely been permitted the entry-level set of tools. At the time he’d made do with nearly nothing. Now his damage was only limited by his lack of imagination.

“He was tortured by Lucifer himself. Physical pain is only gonna go so far; I want to use it to shape some habits, maybe give him a rhythm—one that we can break to shake him up. I want to throw him off, so that he doesn’t have anything left to stand on. Let’s break him down, but he’s a smart kid, he’ll know exactly what’s happening to him.” Dean smiled. “He has so much psychological baggage, that a few targeted hits and he’ll start crumbling. Then we give him his only lifeline.”

He was confident that, given enough time, they could make Sam serve them, but the question that really concerned him was in what capacity. They wanted Sam for his visions. If they couldn’t get that, then all his brother was was a freak, one that was clever to the point of being dangerous until he was truly ensnared or loyal. And if he could be made practically trustworthy, then what? Send him to the Crossroads to push paper? It seemed like such a waste. Sam was supposed to be part of the Court of Hell, that’s why they’d collected him.

Dean asked, “What if we can’t bring his visions back?”

“Even if we can’t place him exactly where we want him, we still need him,” Abaddon replied. “Your brother had an ear to the divine. Maybe it’s useful to us, maybe not—but he’s powerful all the same. We need to control him so that no one else does. Creatures like that are tools and status symbols.”

Dean furrowed his brow slightly. “You want to use him for politics.” He thought for a moment, processing such a nuanced motivation. “He’s the one true vessel of Lucifer. He’s been Lucifer.” An unpleasant thought crossed his mind. “What if he’s a threat to us, to your claim to the throne?”

“As long as he isn’t a demon, no one will give him his own authority. We just need to remind him and Hell, that he’s a mortal, mixed-blood freak.” She stroked his chest reassuringly. “Eventually, when he’s ready, we’ll give him a leash. All his choices and power will go through us.”

Dean kissed her. He was so relieved that Abaddon had a plan. They’d be able to keep Sam after all.

* * *

Sam turned the eight-ounce, opaque plastic bottle over in his hands. It had contained some sort of nutritional supplement or protein shake, but his captors had removed the label, leaving him unable to extrapolate from the calorie count how often he was being fed. He couldn’t even be sure that they were feeding him at regular intervals. There wasn’t anything in the cell that could convey the passage of time. Also, the insignificant meals left him hungry in a vague way that he couldn’t quantify enough to compare span-over-span. He suspected that he was losing weight, but, being naked, he lacked a waistband or belt to count lost notches. Though it hadn’t yet reached the point of leaving his hip bones or ribs visible, so that was something.

Shortly, one of the guards would come to collect the empty bottle from him; they didn’t want him to have anything to entertain himself with for very long. The first three bottles he’d stubbornly tried to keep, hoping for some brilliant idea to hit him, showing him how to escape using only his wits and a piece of trash. But after the third beating with no strokes of inspiration to show for it he’d learned to place the bottle far from him in an attempt to not be bothered during collection. Based on the fourteen cooperative attempts, he’d figured out that leaving the bottle just inside the door meant he was less likely to be attacked… but that didn’t mean he was entirely pleased with this approach.

One of the first things he’d done when left alone, without the imminent threat of Dean’s return, was to examine the door. It was a thick, solid piece of steel, with no accessible seams, hinges, or keyhole. There was a small audible click when it was closed, hinting at a mechanical lock, but he hadn’t been able to get a good look at the door edge-on to see how it worked. As much as he might rationally want to study the door, he quickly realized there was a downside to being over there.

When he was within a couple feet of the door for more than thirty seconds, he began hearing things that weren’t audible in the rest of the room. There must’ve been an acoustic anomaly or enchantment that prevented the sound from reaching every corner of the small, hard room; he was grateful for it. By the door, he could hear various things that made his skin crawl: relentless screaming, howlings of laughter or insanity, ragged breathing that seemed to always be on the edge of a death rattle, and the clicking—the tapping of claws on stone, slowly pacing the hallway. There was something about the sounds that immediately filled him with dread and made the room feel colder. But as unsettling as they were, almost worse was how, without warning, they would fade to nothing. Sitting in the silence, his ears would play tricks on him. Periodically, his mind would pick out patterns in the subtle static and for a moment he would worry that the disturbing sounds were penetrating deeper into the room.

Between the stretches of isolation, he was tortured in an odd sort of spectacle. Most of the time, Dean wasn’t actually the one torturing him. The knight kept bringing in different underlings and watched as the subordinate worked him over. By the fifth one, Sam realized what was happening; Dean was conducting job interviews, trying to settle on the torturer with sufficient technique or style to assist. Once Dean even intervened, cutting the session short when some aspect of the shock therapy wasn’t done to his liking. 

The realization that the minions were being evaluated actually inspired a healthy amount of spiteful resistance from Sam, when he might’ve otherwise endured it with quiet annoyance. Surely his brother understood that this call-and-response was happening, but Sam couldn’t tell if it was frustrating Dean at all. On some level it almost felt like he was playing into the knight’s hands, though he couldn’t figure out to what end. 

That’s what he got for trying to decipher the motivations of a madman. Hell, most of the time Dean didn’t even talk to him while overseeing a subordinate. Less frequently, Dean would come to torture him or chat one-on-one. So far, he hadn’t been able to establish a pattern or theme, with the topics and degree of brutality being seemingly random. The guy was definitely probing for something, strengths or weaknesses, it was hard to say. Regardless, Sam hated every moment of it.


	4. The Heir

Sam woke up to find Dean standing on the other side of the cell, holding a whip and watching him. He flinched, startled by the discovery, though he shouldn’t have been that surprised. Not only was he so exhausted from the ordeal that he was randomly nodding off without noticing, his captors could teleport. So far it had been almost a small courtesy to him that generally they’d used the door, giving him some insignificant warning that he was about to encounter someone. But once again, he’d been reminded that the circumstances were different in Hell. He could literally be ambushed without warning. 

“You’re beautiful,” Dean commented.

Sam’s body tensed. He’d seen the trail of sexually assaulted bodies that his brother had left in his wake. The fact that Dean had raped dozens of men made the compliment all the more disturbing. He shifted to try covering himself with his arms and legs as much as possible, but the Knight hardly seemed to notice.

Dean absentmindedly tightened the coiled whip, “Has anyone told you that?” When Sam hesitated, he snarled, “Answer me.”

“Yes.”

Dean’s expression softened again at the cooperation. “Did any of them love you? I bet Jessica told you how beautiful you are.”

The mere mention of Jessica made Sam feel sick. She was too good to have her name spoken in Hell, to become some sort of weapon against him. That was what Dean was undoubtedly planning. To attack her as some sort of game or torture. The physical weapon was just a formality.

“Speak,” Dean instructed. “Or I’ll whip you until you talk, however you want it.”

Sam swallowed dryly, weighing just how badly he wanted to avoid the unpleasant topic. It felt like such a small gesture, but even futile resistance was all he had. He pursed his lips. Dean made a little show of unfurling the whip, before lashing him three times in rapid succession. Thankfully, he’d had the foresight to cover his face and crotch, but fresh cuts marked his forearms, shins, left shoulder, and left thigh. He hissed in pain despite trying not to react.

“You want to play this game all night? I’m happy to take off all your skin,” Dean threatened. During previous sessions, the knight and his underlings had used a stinging white powder to quickly regrow skin. The threat of having so much removed wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility. “I just want to have a nice conversation.”

Just as Dean readied himself for another round of lashes, Sam blurted out, “She said I was beautiful.”

“What about love? Did she love you?”

Sam nodded, fighting back emotions that would likely be tread on by such an uncaring audience. “Yes.”

A sickening grin spread across Dean’s face as he lowered the whip to his side. “Maybe she thought she loved you, but we both know the truth: she loved a lie,” he hissed. “Like I care about your deception aimed at _ her _ , some lie to cover about you being a hunter, about your family. You were ashamed of us—like I give a fuck about that now. But she didn’t love _ you _, not really. You know that, right?”

Sam shifted, uncomfortable with the possible trajectory of the rant.

“Answer.”

“I think she loved me.”

“No. You wanted her to love you. That’s why you pretended to be something else. That’s why you lied to her and everyone around you. Wholesome-fucking-straight-A-charity-case.” Dean moved in closer and crouched down to be eye-to-eye. “But if sweet, innocent Jessica had seen Sammy’s greatest hits—you murdering people or dismembering corpses at the tender age of twelve—well, I’m guessing Jess would’ve called you a monster. Hell, all the time she knew you, you had demon blood in you. You two go bareback?”

Sam couldn’t even speak if he’d tried. He was clenching his jaw, seething with a mixture of anger and fear. But Dean just laughed at his obvious distress before continuing.

“She thought she was _ making love _ to the boy next door, meanwhile you’re hiding a kill count longer than your high school graduating class and dumping unholy loads down her throat every Friday night.” Malicious glee twinkled in Dean’s eyes. “The tiniest glimpse at the real you and she would’ve been pouring bleach in her pussy to burn out your boys.”

He wanted to lunge at Dean, to pummel him for the way he was talking about Jessica, using her against him…. But the fucked up thing was that his brother wasn’t even really attacking her. He was attacking the credibility of their relationship itself and that had always been a sore spot. Sam had always hated lying to her about his past. It had felt like a betrayal, placing an asterisk on their relationship that he would never be able to erase. And that shame had smothered some of his rage, leaving an oddly defeated feeling.

Dean got up, giving him some space and a minute to dwell. The knight recoiled the whip, but Sam hardly noticed.

“Did Ruby ever tell you that you’re beautiful?”

The question brought Sam back to the moment. In a quiet voice, he answered, “Not in those exact words.”

Dean smiled at the thought, then said, “She wouldn’t have, would she? I bet with her it was something along the lines of you being particularly fuckable.”

“Something like that.”

“You two ever snuggle afterwards or was it all just pound her ‘til you’re spent and drop her?”

Sam pursed his lips at the invasive question. The asshole was digging in, just like with Jessica, only now with the antithesis. Sam didn’t want to discuss his relationship with Ruby. If he could get his way, the entire experience would be ripped from his memory and never spoken of again.

Dean pointedly used the whip to tap his chin. “We’re having a pleasant conversation, Sam. Don’t make this unnecessarily messy.”

“She used to stay with me afterwards,” he replied coldly.

A wicked grin crept across Dean’s face. “You two snuggled.” His voice was a combination of teasing and contemplation. He wet his lips, then asked, “Do you think she loved you?”

Sam was candidly glaring at him. It was taking a considerable amount of willpower to not punch Dean in the face regardless of his captor’s status as both his brother and the one with all the power. The guy was just gouging away at incredibly personal, sensitive subjects, but of course Dean knew that. It was torture after all.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She used me.”

Dean chuckled and nodded a bit at the memory. “She really did, didn’t she. She was good at what she did; I’ll give her that. Even fooled me for a while there.”

The small degree of clinical admiration on his face was disturbing and oddly telling. It was almost as if he’d shed his old grudges, or at least the ones where he could professionally appreciate some craft or skill. Maybe he was actually less prideful? No. He just didn’t consider his old self worthy of defending.

“So what, you can’t love someone you use?” Dean mused aloud. “I’m gonna use you. Does that mean I don’t love you?”

Sam pressed himself further back into the wall. While alive, the brothers had rarely used the word love with respect to their relationship. There had been some level of emotional distance between them except in the moments before one of their sacrificial plays. To a normal healthy person it might’ve been a welcome statement, but coming from Dean’s lips to his ears, it sounded like a harbinger of pain. Regardless, beyond the feelings it triggered, within their strange new circumstances, even rationally it carried an unpleasant quality.

“You’re a demon,” Sam replied.

“And you’re an idiot. You’ve got a lot to learn.” The knight looked down at him with an expression of genuine admiration. “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out eventually. We’re gonna make sure of that.”

* * *

There wasn’t a day-night cycle as far as Sam could tell, but enough time had passed that he’d become partially familiar with the routine of his torture. By his best estimate, Dean only worked him over about a quarter of the time. It wasn’t surprising when it came right down to it. The elder Winchester was a knight of Hell, second-in-command to the queen. He was bound to have more responsibilities than just tormenting his little brother. So, the asshole really had delegated.

After all of the contenders had applied, three underlings had been selected to take turns working him over. He didn’t know their actual names but in his head Sam had named them Tall, Short, and Twitch. Each of them had their specialty: Tall did whips, Short did extreme temperatures, and Twitch used knives—unnervingly so, being that the name was inspired by the woman’s chronic tic. 

Of course, being that he was a mortal victim, their implements of pain seemed to be enchanted so that the injuries would self-repair over the course of a short rest. After being worked over, he was always given a brief reprieve, to contemplate giving up while his flesh grew back in order to be torn or burnt away again. Even those moments of relative peace were beginning to grate on him, as he lay motionless on the cold floor while covered in the itching-burning sensation of nerve regrowth.

Sometimes when he was worked too hard or too soon after his last session, a scar would form. He was watching a burn on his arm, wondering whether it would become scar number eighteen when he noticed something unusual in the background. The seam along the door to his cell looked a bit odd. He cautiously stood up, bracing against the rough stone wall for support, then walked over to see what was off. 

The door wasn’t seated correctly, having been closed just short of the lock clicking into place. To any casual glance it appeared typical, but the fucking thing was unlocked. His heart started pounding. Some careful, rational voice in his head was telling him to stop and formulate a plan—but the moment anyone else entered the room, the door would be reset and his best opportunity at escape so far would’ve been lost. He looked around the cell for anything he might jam into the locking mechanism to break it, buying him more time, but aside from his naked body there was nothing in there. The plastic bottle of his last meal was collected shortly after he’d finished with it. The swell of haunting cries from beyond the door started making his stomach churn with acid, yet he wasn’t dissuaded.

Going out there was a risk, but what was the worst that could happen? They’d torture him more. He held his breath, then gingerly pulled the door open. There was no yelling of guards or someone charging in to subdue him. His heart was pounding, pumping adrenaline through his bloodstream. The burn on his arm seemed to redden and sting, agitated by the stress or the blood pressure. After taking a second to ready himself to fight or flee, he poked his head out into the hallway.

There was no one there. The haunting screams of pain and wicked howling were silent. There was only an eerie stillness. He had no idea where to go, but he was already running for it. The soles of his feet were tender from being sliced up two sessions earlier, and the coarse stone threatened to scratch them open at any moment, but he was moving like a man possessed. Through the primal instinct to find a way out, he occasionally had the presence of mind to glance back and make sure he wasn’t leaving a trail of bloody footprints in his wake. He’d just finished checking for the fourth time when he was struck by a feeling of profound wrongness that stopped him in his tracks.

For a moment, he thought that maybe the unsettling feeling in his soul was the realization that it was suspicious that he hadn’t seen anyone else, but that was only part of it. His heart dropped in his chest as he knew that he was being watched. Before he could even process what was going on, Sam turned and ran back in the direction he’d come from as the hellhound started barking. He couldn’t see the damn thing, but its growls echoed through the stone corridor, chasing after him. The beast was gaining on him; he could feel it getting closer. There wasn’t any way he’d be able to get back to his cell and close the door in time to evade the hound. He tried the handle of the closest door, but it was locked.

A massive force slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He couldn’t see the dog, but the damage told the story: large claws tore through his left calf, a set of fangs as large as a lion’s bit down on his right leg around the knee. He had just enough time to anticipate the hellhound shaking its head to rip off his right leg, when he passed out.

* * *

Sam’s head felt like it was caught in a thick fog that obscured all his senses. He had a vague recollection of being in deep shit, but it was hard to figure out whether there was something else going on beyond the soul-crushing reality of being in Hell—then the pain started. His lower body felt like it was on fire or flayed. He was still too disoriented to move or open his eyes, but the agony he was in was definitely real.

“Someone should’ve been watching him more closely,” Dean said in the distance. “I’m surrounded by morons. I want the guards to report to the throne room in ten minutes. I want explanations of who let that go so far, and there will be fucking murders.”

“Yes, sir,” replied a voice that Sam didn’t recognize.

There was the sound of receding footsteps, then one pair stopped. From further away Dean said, “And Doc, try to save his legs.”

“For you, certainly, sir.”

The smell of waxy smoke tickled Sam’s nose, as everything faded away.

Sam jerked awake—There was a hellhound. He’d been attacked—In his panic he tried to get up, but two guards quickly forced him back down onto a chilly metal table. Unfortunately, he’d moved enough that he clearly recognized the feeling of tearing stitches on his left leg and abdomen. He wanted to get up and see what had happened to him, but the guards were overpowering, even ignoring his exhaustion.

Beyond the guards, a portly demon with thick glasses appeared to be suturing Sam’s right leg. In an unconcerned voice, he said, “Try not to move like that. I’m rather fond of my work so far.”

Sam sank into the hard surgical table as best he could. He must’ve appeared particularly defeated because the guards took their hands off him, opting to observe from a few feet away. Even though he’d evidently disarmed the guards a bit, another escape attempt seemed wildly impractical. He’d be tackled in a second, his legs were in an unknown state, and to be perfectly honest, he was grateful to be getting something in the way of medical care.

“What happened?”

The… apparently-doctor tugged on the suture without a care about the pain it caused, then tied it off. “You made a hellhound’s day.” A little smirk spread across the man’s face. “And mine too. You are a treat. Such an odd creature.” In a quiet voice, almost talking to himself, the doctor observed, “So nearly human.”

The comment was unsettling, but he was hesitant to ask what he meant. The fact of the matter was that he didn’t trust anyone there. They were trying to brainwash him, and this doctor was just another pawn in the game. He wouldn’t have any way of arguing against whatever story was spun. It would just lead to more things to worry over at a time when he needed to keep his wits about him.

After cutting off the excess thread, the doctor patted the raw leg and asked, “Isn’t this delightful?”

Sam’s eyes drifted around the table and floor, taking in the bloody rags. The sight made him nauseous. “I would disagree.”

The doctor pressed the needle into his skin too roughly while starting on another row of stitches. Sam gripped the table as he gritted his teeth. There had to be some sort of analgesic or drugs in his system, otherwise the overall trauma to his legs probably would’ve made him pass out. But there wasn’t nearly enough to take the edge off. Of course, he’d been sewn up repeatedly, just never by someone who had been so inconsiderate.

As if sensing his discomfort, the demon commented, “It’s been decades since I last worked on a living body.”

That explained part of it. “Maybe I should see a human doctor,” Sam suggested.

“Unnecessary,” the man replied. “They don’t have all the tools we do. Anyway, both legs are back on your body—”

“Back?”

“Well, it was only the right side and it wasn’t completely severed.”

He covered his face with his hands, then summoned some courage and lifted his head. His right leg below mid-thigh looked like a patchwork quilt of stitching. He couldn’t even discern which scrap of skin had evidently prevented the lower portion of his leg from being scampered off with as a hellhound’s chew toy. With a little concentration, he fought through the minimal painkillers and wiggled his toes. The reaction time was slower than he would’ve liked and there was an odd numbness in places, but at least he still had some functionality. Some morbid part of him briefly considered those numb areas a gift, being immune to future pain-based torture.

Propping his upper body further up on his elbows took a little effort. He was exhausted and aching all over, but he needed to check something.

“It’s still there,” the doctor commented knowingly. “You’re lucky. I’ve never had to reattach a dick. Personally, don’t much care to learn.”

Sam lowered himself back down onto the exam table. He felt faint. Despite the fact that he was still in one piece, it was just barely.

His eyes reflexively scanned the room, sizing up the two guards for a fight and other tactical considerations. There hadn’t appeared to be a locking mechanism on the door. If he pretended to fall back asleep, maybe the guard presence might decrease. If he could grab a scalpel and severe key tendons of a single guard, he might stand a chance of getting out of the room. Admittedly, his leg wasn’t in great shape, but once the stitches and bandages were in place at least— He stared at the door for a long while as his heart sank. The habit of casing a hostile environment had served him well many times before. Unfortunately, this time he was in Hell. Trying to escape via some desperate sprint through the halls, looking for an out, had only gotten him mauled by a hellhound. 

An unpleasant thought crept into his mind. Dean had expressed annoyance that things had gone too far, not that he’d gotten out. What if the door being left unlocked had been intentional. It was a fucking invitation to a hard truth, one that had gotten out of hand. They wanted him to learn that those hallways didn’t bring him any closer to freedom. 

* * *

Over what could’ve been the course of a week of treatments from the doctor, Breznick, the web of lacerations that were his lower body had healed into scars. Unfortunately, the functionality of his right leg hadn’t returned to normal, or improved much at all. Walking proved to be a bit of a challenge. His right leg didn’t want to support his weight for some time even after being released from what passed for Hell’s infirmary. Instead of giving him a cane or crutch, he was simply dragged back to his cell and left to figure out his own physical therapy. He was still tortured in almost a token effort, but he noticed that the still-sensitive scars on his leg weren’t exploited to their full potential. He imagined that his captors were scared of accidentally making the damage permanent. Occasionally, one of the trio of inferior punishers would dig at or press on a scar on his right leg, though it was clear to him that they wanted him to actually heal. He supposed in the long-term, saving the leg was preferable for them; it was an investment in having roughly 20% of him available to torment later.

To Sam’s surprise, his brother hadn’t bothered checking in on him during the initial recovery period. It would be foolish to think that there was some measure of guilt over the mauling, that Dean was frustrated that his plan to teach Sam a lesson had gone too far. Rather than avoiding the ramifications of a personal failure, it was more likely that the knight was just redirecting his attention. Sam was a temporarily benched project while recovering enough to withstand the big guns. Other projects must take precedent in the meantime.

After a few sessions with Tall, Short, and Twitch, Sam was just starting to feel a slight return to normalcy, when two guards abruptly entered his cell and grabbed him. They dragging him out into the hallway, but instead of taking him to see the Breznick, they took him down another path. He’d never gone anywhere besides between the infirmary and his room. It was disorienting to suddenly be headed into the unknown, more so thanks to the confusing labyrinthine nature of the corridors of Hell. Before he could work up the nerve to ask where he was being taken, they reached a set of double doors guarded by four brutish-looking demons.

The doors opened and he was dragged into the throne room, then dropped to the ground. Abaddon sat on the throne, silently watching him. They hadn’t seen each other in a long while, since she’d fully granted Dean control over his little pet project—and they’d never met without his brother present. He didn’t bother trying to stand or cover himself; he just stared up at her with reserved loathing. The guards left, closing the doors behind them. It was just him and Abaddon, but he didn’t think for a second that he stood a chance in a fight. He was mortal, worn down, and had a bad leg; meanwhile she was likely even more powerful than Dean—or at least Dean seemed to act like that was the case. 

She sat, watching him thoughtfully, then told him, “I want us to get along. It would mean so much, especially to your brother.”

He wanted to laugh dryly, but thought better than to risk inviting a beating. “What, are you about to ask for my blessing?”

A disconcerting smile spread across her face as she rose from her throne and approached him. “He’s already completely committed to me. No reason for any ridiculous, human formalities.”

Sam studied her for a moment. He didn’t know enough about the social structure of Hell to tell if there was something akin to marriage that, between Abaddon and his brother, would shift some of the power of the throne. It certainly appeared that everyone understood who was currently in charge; muddying the waters by establishing at least one metric where the couple were complete equals might prove politically damaging to her. She may very well have considered a hypothetical formal coupling as a threat to her supremacy as queen. 

He couldn’t yet imagine a scenario where he might be able to test the theory, but for the first time in a long while he had a long-term goal. If he could find an opportunity to drive a wedge between the pair, he would. It was hard to imagine Dean turning on Abaddon; he seemed to sincerely enjoy being her right hand. But if she ever perceived Dean as a threat…. It was at least something to try, given an opening.

They stared at each other for a long while, neither of them daring to blink. Eventually, she observed aloud, “You’re an awfully stubborn thing. I suppose you’d have to be to have gotten this far.”

“Torture me all you want,” he told her. “After Lucifer, this is just annoying.”

“What if I told you that I don’t want to torture you? I really do want us to get along.”

“You’d rather use me than keep going to all this effort,” Sam scoffed. “I see what you two are doing. I’ll never join you. I’ll never trust you.”

“I don’t need your trust to have your service.”

“Well, good luck with that.” With complete sincerity, Sam asked, “How much time are you really prepared to spend on breaking me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have plans I’m keeping you from?” She gestured to the door sarcastically, then kicked him in the chest, knocking him onto his side. “Or are you holding out hope that we’ll get bored? Maybe we’ll let you go out of some misguided love of Dean’s or—hell—maybe I’ll just snap your neck. At least it’ll be over, right?”

“I won’t help you,” Sam told her through gritted teeth. “No matter what you do to me, I won’t help you.”

“Every second you’re here helps me.” She strolled around him in a circle as she explained his circumstances. “That’s why it’ll never end—not the way you want. We’d rather drop you in solitary and throw away the key for eternity than let you go. So from here until the end of time, you only have two options: being stubborn or accepting your new reality.”

“And what am I to you?”

“Well, that’s kind of up to you.” She picked up a clear crystal goblet of red wine from the small table beside her throne, took a sip, then gestured with it off into the imprecise distance as she continued. “Sam Winchester: one of the greatest hunters of the modern age, the boy with the demon blood, Azazel’s last special child, empty shell of the Devil.” She took a sip, allowing a moment for him to process the array of accolades and insults. “We think that you could do great things in service of Hell, once you’ve learned your place here. But if you’re stubborn, petty, or just weak—I’ll happily make you a trophy and cautionary tale to my enemies.”

He might not be powerful in-and-of himself, but he was noteworthy for multiple reasons, to multiple factions. Once she’d secured her control over Hell, she could drag his name out as a conquest, something to hang over the hunting community and Heaven. His standing might not have been impeccable with the winged community, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that every angel in existence had acquired some degree of begrudging respect for him and his brother over the years. Hence, part of the personal insult of Dean becoming a knight of Hell. The Winchesters were supposed to have an entire gospel written about them. Things certainly had gone off the rails. 

Sam furrowed his brow as he touched his jaw. There was a couple millimeters of scruff that had grown, but thinking about it more closely, he hadn’t shaved while in Hell. He should’ve had a beard by then. There were scars on his skin that had lost some of their redness. That change had to have occurred over weeks or months, and yet he had lost his frame of reference. Upon reflection, he wasn’t sure how much of the monotonous drag of his torture had been mercifully erased by his own mind. He couldn’t recall how many sessions he’d had with the trio, and even the number of times he’d seen his brother was unclear. It all seemed to blur together.

In a quiet voice he asked, “How long have I been here?”

She smiled at him, probably delighted that he’d wanted something from her, at least sufficiently so that he wasn’t simply stonewalling her.

“Time works a bit differently down here.” Abaddon paused for a moment, debating how much to actually give him. “Let’s just say you’re well on your way to making the back of a milk carton.”

He’d been gone long enough for the others to hopefully realize that he was in trouble. Castiel had known he was going after Dean. It might take time for him to get back to the bunker and retrace Sam’s steps in order to confirm that he’d been taken instead of killed. Jody would probably be able to speed up the search by utilizing an in with the local police, but it could still take days for them to piece together what had happened. That could easily be the better part of a year in Hell. 

Even then, what could Castiel and Jody do to save him? Castiel had rescued souls for Hell before, but he was considerably weaker now. It was hard to imagine that Heaven might rally behind a rescue mission. And Dean knew about the back door into Hell through Purgatory that Sam had used during the trials, so that would be sealed.

He wasn’t sure what anyone on the outside might be able to do to save him, but he did know one thing: any rescue effort would be in vain if he didn’t survive.

* * *

Sam spat blood onto the floor of his cell, then rolled his tongue around in his mouth a bit to make sure he still had all his teeth. So far everything was accounted for. Dean was being comparatively gentle, opting to only sporadically punctuate his self-righteous ramblings with a punch or kick. It was hard to say whether this was preferable compared to the more violent sessions. At least knives and whips didn’t take jabs at one’s increasingly delicate psyche. 

Encounters like this had become known as ‘lessons.’ Sometimes it would consist of Dean doing a sort of Socratic method that incorporated some minor violence. Other times, he would involve being exposed to grotesque images and accounts of atrocities that were likely meant to desensitize him. Occasionally, he’d be lectured on the patheticness of humans or the fragility of mankind. Depending on the technique it was easier or harder to see what sorts of brainwashing they were getting at, though he consistently spotted the attempts to convince him to shed his attachment to humanity. That was the true theme of his imprisonment.

This was one of the rare lessons where Abaddon came to watch. She had given Dean the reins, but occasionally she would check in on their little project. Sam wondered if she had taken more of an interest in him since their one-on-one talk, though she hardly ever got hands-on with him. She preferred to watch Dean work him over, periodically adding a small verbal jab, and giving her partner a reward while Sam sat there helplessly. Currently, she leaned against the far wall, beside a tray full of tools of torture, a subtle smile having formed on her face at Dean’s perfectly metered hit.

“When you were a baby,” Dean continued. “You used to cry so much—not before Mom died. You really started afterwards. I’d sit for hours listening to you crying. We’d try everything: formula, diaper, rocking you. Eventually, Dad would give you a little taste of cough syrup or whiskey, whatever would get you to shut up for an hour or two.” He flexed his fingers, then took a moment to admire the shape of his own fist. “Dad thought there was something wrong with you, colic at first, but then he found out about demons. That’s when he figured out that Azazel did something to you.”

Dean quickly lunged, grabbing his shoulder. It took a fair amount of willpower for Sam to not try to shrug him off or evade his grasp. Any attempt would be futile and only lead to a harsher beating than whatever was planned. Not to mention, his brother’s inhumanly strong thumb was already positioned to break his clavicle. Sam just sat there on the stone floor, silently waiting for whatever punchline or insult was inevitably coming. 

“I remember one time, a couple months after the fire—“ Dean reached up, pressing his hand over Sam’s nose and mouth, cutting off his air. “I saw Dad standing over you with a pillow in his hands. He was crying, so I pretended to be asleep.” He leaned in so close to whisper in his brother’s ear that Sam could feel Dean’s stubble against his cheek. “I watched him as he thought about smothering you. He knew something had happened. From the night Mom died he knew that something was wrong with you. He wanted to kill you even back then.”

Sam’s heart was pounding, consuming the precious little oxygen he had left in his lungs. He tugged at Dean’s arm, but couldn’t dislodge the hand from his face. His eyes flicked to Abaddon, desperately hoping that she might intervene, but instead she wet her lips as she watched Dean work.

“But now I know why you cried. There was nothing wrong with you. You were made gifted, but none of us realized it.” His voice softened a bit. “You were crying because you knew exactly what was happening. You knew she was dead. You knew Dad hated you—you always have. I bet, on some level, you weren’t even surprised when I told you that Dad asked me to kill you.”

Dean released him.

Sam gasped for breath. His lungs were burning and there was an intense pressure behind his eyes.

“I want to apologize.” Dean started stroking Sam’s chest.

Sam was staring straight ahead at the ceiling of the cell, in an attempt to not meet either knights’ eyes. He was so unnerved by the chaotic behavior that he didn’t want to do anything that might trigger a reaction.

“I want to apologize for how I treated you before, but now I get it. I get why you ran away. You could feel it: an abomination trapped in a family of hunters, who hated you.” Dean gently touched Sam’s cheek. “But things are different now. I accept you for what you are. I didn’t understand that before. I was scared. I’ll admit that. I was weak back then. But I’m gonna make things right—” He gestured back to Abaddon. “We’re gonna make things right.” 

“We are,” she agreed as walked over, then lightly caressed Dean’s cheek, drawing him up to her. 

The pair were standing over Sam, who was slumped against the wall. They kissed for a few seconds before Abaddon palmed Dean’s dick through his pants. Dean pinned her to the wall above Sam, draping the back of her black leather skirt over their prisoners face and upper body. The dress obscured his vision and he felt pressed in on by their legs. Everything rocked back and forth a bit, and Sam prayed that they weren’t actually having sex above him. He tried to slide down in order to slip out from beneath them, but Abaddon’s legs were straddling him so closely that he couldn’t get past. They were grinding faster above him, then suddenly he heard Abaddon moan. He grimaced at the sound of Dean grunting during a few erratic thrusts that slapped Abaddon’s skirt repeatedly against the side of his face.

Sam fought the urge to throw up when a few drops of warm liquid fell onto his stomach as Dean and Abaddon pulled away from the wall. His normally featureless cell now smelled like semen, and he didn’t even have anything to clean himself up with. He looked up at the couple, though he didn’t have much hope that they’d offer him a rag. In all probability he’d have to wait until Short’s turn at torturing him and trick the guy into burning off that part of his skin. Until then, he’d just feel profoundly unclean.

Meanwhile, Dean and Abaddon were having a marvelous time. Dean was embracing her from behind, nose gently dragging along her exposed neck as he whispered something to her in that demonic language. She was smiling and laughing at whatever he was saying. One of his hands slowly slid down her torso to cup her crotch as he spoke to her. Abaddon leaned her head back, then hummed a reply that Sam couldn’t understand, but for one word: Azazel. Both knights stared at Sam like a pair of hyenas who’d just found injured prey.

Abaddon reached up, petting Dean’s neck, appeasing him with a touch before she stepped forward from his embrace to speak with Sam.

“You don’t feel blessed, do you?” she asked him.

He wanted to laugh at the absurd question. Not only was he a prisoner of Hell, tortured routinely, there was currently a large bruise forming on his face and someone else’s cum drying on his stomach. It took a considerable amount of his willpower to not snap in anger at her, an act that would inevitably result in her dog, Dean, beating him within an inch of his life.

“I’m racking my brain,” he replied, dryly. “But I’m guessing you’ll enlighten me.”

She smiled down at him. “I knew Azazel. He was one of the most ambitious and clever demons in Hell. How many children do you think he had?”

When Sam didn’t promptly reply, Dean grabbed a whip from the tray of tools, then struck him with it. “She asked you a question.”

“Thirty,” Sam blurted out, having no real basis for the number.

“Try 6,666,” she corrected. “You’re the last one, his only surviving child out of so many.”

“I’m not his child.” He hated that phraseology. “My parents were John and Mary Winchester.”

Dean used the bullwhip to gently touch Sam’s face and assured him, “Don’t worry. You’ll always be my brother.”

“You see, Sam. Demons, for the most part we can’t have children in a conventional, biological sense. If we want a family, we have to take it by force,” Abaddon’s explained. “Azazel did one better than that. He gave a little of himself to each of his children in order to make them into something more. He sacrificed to make you and the others what you are.”

“You know it,” Dean added. “You always were one-foot-out-the-door with the family. It’s ‘cause you’re a bastard.”

Abaddon strolled about the cell with a conversational air. “Azazel’s children were made to be special, but all of you were hybrid abominations. Not entirely human, but not a legitimate demon either.” She gave him a sidelong glance, then spoke with a voice that hinted at him being let in on a secret. “Quite a few powerful demons found the whole thing pretty insulting. Let’s just say your kind weren’t just being killed by hunters and each other.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean assured him. “You’re under our protection.”

“I took the liberty of threatening a few lives and laying some rules,” Abaddon elaborated. “Everyone knows that Azazel’s kids were a bunch of sub-demon bastards. You’re a specimen of an extinct species that no one will touch because I say so.”

Against his better judgment, Sam said, “I’m human.”

Abaddon tsk-tsked him while wagging a scolding finger. “You’re _ part _ human.”

“You’re Azazel’s heir.” Dean readied the whip. “Say it.”

Sam hesitated. They wanted him to embrace that persona and would apparently try to beat it into him. He was well-versed in being tortured, but he also knew that he wasn’t unbreakable. Lucifer had done so much damage that he was still struggling with the trauma. Meanwhile they were keeping him off balance while prodding a sensitive subject for him, and it was his brother holding the whip. And Dean seemed perfectly delighted to torture him indefinitely. Stubborn defiance might very well lead to him eventually having a full-blown breakdown. It might be safer to buckle just enough that they didn’t bludgeon his mind into oblivion.

Dean struck him. “Say it.”

“I’m Azazel’s heir.”

Abaddon smiled. “Again.”


	5. The Unexpected Gifts

Sam was huddled against the wall with his eyes closed. It was one of those times when the guards had shackled him to the metal ring on the wall, probably to make it harder for him to evade some upcoming implement of pain. He wasn’t even bothering to examine the bindings for exploitable weaknesses. The cell itself was undoubtedly locked from the outside, not that that really mattered. His fucked-up leg was a constant reminder of the futility of making a run for it. Instead he tried to use the precious time alone to rest.

In the midst of the monotony, it was hard to tell when he’d actually fall asleep, except for the rare occasions when he’d have pleasant dreams. Those were happening less and less. Even before his capture, he’d been plagued by nightmares of the crime scene photos and whatever disturbing scenes the images conjured in his mind. Recently, his lessons had included more exposure therapy that lingered in his mind too long, filling his dreams with slow eviscerations or the inarticulate pleas of rape victims who had had their tongues removed. He was imagining such a scene, though he wasn’t sure if he considered it a dream, when the  door creaked as it opened, but he didn’t open his eyes until he heard a woman speak.

“Sam!”

His head shot up and his eyes opened the moment he recognized Jody’s voice. A little blood trickled from her broken nose and a cut on her cheek beside a large bruise. Her clothes were dirty, as if she’d tussled with an attacker while outside. The guard shoved her into the cell, knocking her to the ground before closing and locking the door behind her.

Sam tried to get to her, but the three-foot-long chains binding him to the wall yanked him back. He didn’t even care that he was naked. It felt like years since he’d seen a welcome face—but here. He didn’t want to see her here. Tears began pouring down his cheeks. There weren’t even words to convey the fear and resignation he felt. A chill passed over him as he recognized that horrible sensation in his chest: he was already mourning her.

She scrambled over to him. Her soft, warm hands gently touched his shoulders and face as she looked him over, quickly assessing him for injuries.  Her eyes lingered on the extensive web of scars covering his legs.  The expression of pity and shock on her face—he must’ve looked awful.

“Sam, what’ve they done to you?”

His throat was too tight with emotion for him to speak, so he shook his head a few times before managing to whisper, “Not you too.”

She started tugging at his cuffs, trying to free him despite the objective hopelessness of the situation. “We can find a way—“

“Stop,” he told her. “It won’t work and if they catch you—“

The door swung open, making Sam internally cringe. It was Dean. 

The knight appeared beyond pleased, nearly gliding into the room with a smug confidence. He closed the door until it clicked, locking the two of them in there with him. A broad smile spread across his face as he greeted the new arrival.

“Jody, I’m so happy you could make it.”

“Well, you know I can’t say no to you boys,” she replied sarcastically.

Some of the twinkle in Dean’s eyes faded at her words. “Isn’t that the truth.”

A chilling quiet filled the cell as Sam and Jody waited to see what he would do. Their captor seemed to contentedly let the tension drag on for several seconds before he rushed forward and grabbed Jody by her hair, yanking her away from Sam. Part of her scalp was torn  by his powerful grip , pouring more blood down her face. He tossed her to the ground, then placed a foot on her back, pinning her facedown. Dean knelt down on top of Jody’s back, immobilizing her with his weight and strength.

Sam struggled against his chains. “Don’t hurt her, Dean. You don’t need to hurt her to make a point.”

“Of course _you’d_ think that.” Dean grinned, then turned his attention to Jody. He dragged his fingertip s up the back of her neck, then tapped on her head a few times. “You were married, right? You had a kid?”

“Yeah,” she replied.

“A son?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d your son die?” Dean asked, then hastily clarified, “The first time. Sammy shot him in the head the second time.”

Sam was shaking. He could tell that Dean was doing the setup for something dramatic, but he wasn’t sure what. 

Jody clenched her eyes for a moment before answering. “Leukemia.”

Dean’s mouth curled downward in disappointment. “I’d been hoping for something a little more interesting or cool, but we can’t win them all.” Jody’s mouth wavered, struggling to find a way to respond, but before she could, he continued. “Did you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love Sam?” he asked with an almost imperceptible edge to his voice.

Sam felt like all the blood had drained from him. He didn’t know which answer Dean wanted to hear and what a wrong choice might mean. Saying yes might damn her as someone so close to Hell’s primary target, yet saying no might make her disposable or trigger Dean to accuse her of lying. He hated that, whether she knew it or not, the fact that she cared about him was the thing that had made her the subject of this torture. Dean hadn’t gone after anyone  he’d personally known until him,  and to work him so thoroughly in such a deliberate way—J ody was an afterthought. She wasn’t the one being tortured; he was.

“Yes,” she replied.

Dean rubbed her face into the rough stone floor a bit as he asked, “Do you love me?”

Through gritted teeth, she said, “Right now you’re kinda getting on my nerves.”

“Answer the question,” he hissed.

“I loved Dean.”

“But then I died, like your other son.” He ran his fingers through her hair, petting her head, heedless to the bloody portion of her scalp. “We both became things that you weren’t able to understand.”

Sam could see the coiled tension in his brother’s body. “Dean, please talk to me.”

Dean leaned in to speak into Jody’s ear. “Do you ever think about how your husband felt when your son tore him apart and ate him?” He forced her head to face the door. “It wouldn’t be Hell if we didn’t give you a taste of that pain. How easy it’d fucking be to bring a zombie down here just for you—“

Sam quickly jerked forward, struggling against his bindings. “Don’t do it. Please.”

Dean whispered, “But that wouldn’t do the job, would it? Because your husband loved the one who became the monster, just like you did.”

He grabbed the back of Jody’s shirt, tearing it to reveal her left shoulder. She tried to buck, to force him off of her, but he was too strong. Yanking her left wrist, he dislocated her arm, causing her to cry out in pain.

“Stop it!” Sam yelled.

Without even acknowledging his brother’s cries, Dean sunk his teeth into Jody’s arm. She screamed as blood began dribbling around his lips. He tore a mouthful of flesh from her, then spat it out onto the ground in front of her face. The wound left sickening yellow fat and bone exposed below the torn skin. The severed tendons had snapped back, deeper into the arm, almost eagerly tearing her apart all the more.

The crimson liquid trickled down Dean’s chin as he snarled, “You have no idea what evil is unleashed. You’re unprepared, just like you were with your son.” He took another bite from her arm, once more spitting it out.

With such large chunks being ripped from Jody, a pool of blood started forming around her. She was still struggling against him, but her strength was visibly failing.

“Dean! Look at me!” Sam shouted, drawing a sidelong glance from his brother, interrupting a third bite. “What do you want?! Just tell me what you want!”

“I want you to see how unprepared the humans are, even the hunters. They don’t know what we’re capable of.” His voice was venomous with a loathing that chilled Sam. “And that’s a crime against them as much as it’s against us.” He pushed off of Jody as he stood up. “We’re gonna change that. We’re gonna change the whole game.”

Sam recoiled into the wall as Dean reached out and tousled his hair before leaving the room. When they appeared to be alone, Sam crawled forward, trying to get to Jody, but she was out of reach. She was bleeding profusely and needed help stopping the blood loss.

“I need you to crawl to me,” he told her as tears poured down his face.

Her right hand gripped the rough stone as she tried to pull herself forward. She was pale and trembling.

“S-Sam,” she murmured.

“I’m right here. Just come to me and I can help you.”

He wasn’t sure how to stop the bleeding from such a large injury, especially with nothing more than her clothes available to him. As she dragged herself inch-by-inch closer to him, Sam tried to formulate a plan. He moved back and forth, to the extremes of his range of motion, trying to see if she was wearing a belt that could be used as a tourniquet, when the cell door opened. Two guards walked in, grabbed her roughly, then started dragging her away.

“She needs a doctor!” Sam shouted after them. “Please! She needs—“

One of the guards slammed the cell door behind them.

Sam huddled against the wall, sobbing for a long while. By the time he was done, he felt like all the energy had been drained from him, and passed out. When he woke up, he saw that his chains and the two chunks of Jody’s flesh had been removed. For a moment, he hoped that it had been a nightmare, but sitting up, he saw a dark discoloration on the floor. Her blood had stained the porous, stone ground. 

He quietly contemplated the damned spot in a state of what he assumed to be shock. Despite his sincere concern for her, he didn’t think there were any tears left in him. For all he knew, she was already dead. If not, he felt a new sort of pity for her. She was damned, nothing more than a punching bag or a fresh way of tormenting him.

Some time later, Dean appeared in the cell, washed up and changed out of his bloody clothes. His eyes flicked down to the stained floor, causing him to let out an amused huff.

With a little difficulty, Sam got up and staggered forward while demanding: “Where’s Jody?!”

Dean flexed his hand, cracking a few knuckles as he readied a fist. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, knowing perfectly well that he didn’t stand a chance in a fight, but he stood his ground.

“She’s around—alive,” the elder Winchester clarified with a minute tilt of his head, as if giving his brother a generous tidbit. “She’s something to trot out if you start being a brat.”

Sam couldn’t help it; he began laughing at the idea that he was the one being unreasonable. A single tear started rolling down his cheek as the laughter turned to grief.

“I’m being a brat?” Sam muttered. “I’ll kill you. I’m so done saving you. I’ll fucking kill you.”

Dean shrugged. “I’ll kill her first.” He smiled, genuinely delighted by something. “And I’m glad to hear you finally gave up on that stupid rescue mission.” He reached out and patted Sam’s cheek. “For a while I’d thought the fire in you had died.”

The knight was gone, leaving Sam to seethe in anger.

* * *

Dean looked at the bundle of black, linen clothes. The pants and shirt lacked any aesthetic flourishes or pieces that could be removed. They were little more than a symbolic gesture to raise his brother above the ranks of the Hell’s tormented cattle. Sam might not have realized it, but the human souls being worked over in the hundreds of thousands of dungeons below them were all naked. Clothing made the man; in Hell, it marked the monster as well as any claws or horns.

He opened the door to the cell where Sam was being held. His brother was sitting in the far corner of the featureless room. The way his legs were positioned, he appeared to be making some feeble effort to protect his dick and balls. It was hard to say if that was some sort of reasonable precaution, an antiquated manifestation of modesty, or if one of the guards had recently done something silly like threatening to castrate him.

Dean strolled in and stood only two feet from Sam, trapping him in the corner. “We’re giving you some clothes. They’re a privilege,” he explained. “You can wear them as long as you’re well behaved. Got it?”

Sam nodded, visibly resentful but resigned to some level of cooperation. “Yeah.”

Dean dropped the pile of clothes onto him, then took a few steps back to allow some space. Watching Sam draped with linen garments, examining them one-by-one, it reminded him of doing laundry when they were children. He would dump the clean laundry basket onto his little brother, playfully burying him. Now Sam wasn’t laughing; he didn’t understand that they could be happy there, they could still be a family—if he’d just get onboard.

Sam quickly slipped on the linen pants, taking care to keep his genitals hidden as much as possible.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before,” Dean commented. When Sam didn’t respond, he joked, “You know, I could order that all your pants be crotchless.”

Sam yanked the shirt over his head with an agitated energy. “What do you want?”

He wouldn’t tolerate insolence, but he was actually pleased that Sam was being communicative and direct. From time to time, it seemed as though he was regressing into a more withdrawn state. For several weeks after displaying Jody for him, Sam had almost given him the silent treatment. The kid would need to grow a thicker hide and more of a spine if he was going to survive in Hell. 

Dean clenched his jaw in order to signal some annoyance at the disrespectful tone. When Sam saw that tell, his skin lost a small amount of color at the realization that he’d overstepped.

“Sammy, I want you to stop being such a sensitive, goodie-goodie cunt,” Dean told him matter-of-factly as he took a step forward. “I want you to learn to command some fucking respect and be a productive member of society.” He kicked Sam in the balls, then grabbed his hair, pulling him down to knee his little brother in the face. Blood poured from the broken nose onto Dean’s leather pants. “But most importantly, I want you to remember the chain-of-command: our queen above all else, then her knight—me. Below that are all the rest. You’re special—Azazel’s kid and all—but you’re still part human. You’re a bastard in Hell; you always will be. You might have clothes, but only because we gave them to you. If you say ‘jump’ and a minion asks ‘how high?’ it’s only because Abaddon and I are giving you the power behind your threats. So don’t think for a second that you get to be a little bitch with me.”

“I didn’t think—”

“You’re damn right you didn’t think,” Dean snapped at him. “I know you aren’t as dumb as you’ve been acting. So stop fucking around.”

* * *

Sam spent the better part of two sessions with Short and Twitch brooding on the way that Dean had implied that he was feigning either ignorance or stupidity. It wasn’t true. If anything it was merely his stubbornness that was offending the knight—of course it was, Dean’s perspective had been warped into something native to Hell. Sam’s commitment to his humanity was seen as the irrational temper tantrum of a child. There wouldn’t be any reasoning with his captors when they all thought that he was the unreasonable or insane one. Dean had said that he was trying to save him. In his own fucked up way, he was. It was deeply unsettling to realize that he was the only person around him that had any idea what made sense. This was a form of Hell he’d never expected: being caught in a perverse system that considered his morality an affliction. Everything was absurd, and adding insult to injury, he was given another gift some time after the linen clothes. 

Dean opened the door, but didn’t step inside the cell. “Come on,” he said, nodding to the hallway.

Sam hesitated, unaccustomed to leaving the cell under his own power. Normally guards would simply grab him and drag him to wherever he was needed—well, the necessity of his torment was debatable—

“Now,” snapped Dean.

He carefully got to his feet and approached the door. His bad leg was able to reliably support his weight, but he walked with a limp and each step caused a little pain; just enough that he would never run again, and certainly not headlong into reckless decisions. He took a moment at the threshold, remembering what his long-ago escape attempt had cost him. Some damaged part of him instinctively feared that there might be hellhounds lingering unseen out there. The impulse wasn’t surprising. Last time he’d carried himself out there he’d been viciously mauled. Rationally, it made no sense for Dean to bait him out just to sic a beast on him. Granted, Sam had serious doubts about his brother’s judgment.

Despite an involuntary tremble in his right leg, Sam stepped out into the stone hallway. When Dean started walking, he followed, keeping pace as best he could while maintaining a few feet of distance. It hardly mattered that the knight could teleport, being within arm’s reach was unnerving as hell. And yet, he was also wary of falling too far behind, lest a hound nip at his heels or a guard mistakenly think he’s trying to escape—he wished escape was as straightforward as that.

He considered asking where they were going, but settled on waiting to see what would come. Snarky retorts and demanding answers hadn’t really gotten him anything beyond minor injuries. Recently, he’d come to adopt more of a philosophy of quiet observation unless explicitly asked a question. It didn’t always work. Sometimes curiosity or frustration got the better of him, but as long as he didn’t put himself out there too much, he could minimize the amount of figurative or literal teeth-pulling.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at him and asked, “You like the clothes?” It was nearly small talk.

Sam’s fingers anxiously touched the linen fabric, eager to feel its reassuring presence. The shirt and soft pants might’ve been aesthetically unappealing, but at least he wasn’t naked anymore. He wasn’t sure whether there was more risk involved in underplaying the amount he liked it or by exposing another thing of value they could hold over him—though, surely anyone could guess that he preferred not having his dick exposed for months or years on end.

“Yeah,” he replied, uninvitingly.

“I want you to be able to keep them. So try not to fuck that up.”

Behind his brother’s back, Sam scowled at the comment. It wasn’t as though it was beyond the knight’s power to just let him have the damn clothes. As far as Sam could tell, Dean and Abaddon were able to make the rules up as they went. For Dean to place the burden of earning the coverings on him seemed disingenuous. On some fucked up level it felt like an illusion of power, but instead of having the ability to gain something there was only the potential to lose it. Regardless, Sam wasn’t about to intentionally do something so stupid as to cost him his clothing, not while there was nothing to gain for it

After walking through enough stone corridors to leave his legs aching and the soles of his feet raw, the two of them reached what Dean had wanted to show him.

They were actually giving him a furnished bedroom instead of the bare cell. Part of Sam wanted to refuse it, to fight Dean or the guards in an attempt to not enter. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what they were trying to do. It was a trap, an attempt to placate him with creature comforts. Deep down in his heart the attempt to buy him off filled him with anger… but there was another sensation: anticipatory exhaustion. 

He’d been beaten, then allowed to stew in his frustration, so many times. It was draining, fighting to no end. Everyone else was immortal, literally having all the time in the world to let him kick and scream. That didn’t mean that there was less value in the sincerity of his resistance. He just happened to have enough experience to foresee how it might play out. Dean had ordered that he be given a room and he would certainly end up in there; the only question was how many broken bones he’d have upon arrival.

As he entered the small stone-walled bedroom, he reminded himself that he wasn’t any less a prisoner there, even if the accommodations had improved. There was a bed, desk, chair, and three bookcases full of hardback books. 

“Make yourself at home, Sammy. And be on your best behavior,” Dean told him before closing the door. 

Sam was alone in the room, but he didn’t mistake his isolation for privacy. There was no doubt in his mind that he was being watched, especially after his brother’s warning. He timidly approached the bed and began examining it.

As far as he could tell there weren’t any traps. He checked every inch of the steel bed frame and all the linens for sigils and hidden needles or blades. After a slight hesitation he prodded the mattress; it felt like an unremarkable pad of thick foam. He summoned a little courage, then sat down on the edge of the bed. A few years ago it might’ve been a woefully inadequate bed, but now it was quite possibly the nicest thing he’d ever experienced. Without another thought he just sank onto the pathetic mattress and instantly fell asleep.

To his surprise, he was allowed to wake up at his own pace, rather than having one of the trio or a guard swoop in to torment him. He reluctantly got up from the comfort of the bed, then began exploring the remaining contents of the room. The desk was equipped with several sheets of soft parchment and a single, waxy, black grease pencil. Inviting punishment, but too tempted by his curiosity, he tried to use the pencil to draw a devil’s trap. Unfortunately, the symbol began disappearing before it could be completed. He frowned at the discovery, though he wasn’t shocked that such a basic precaution would be taken.

Upon inspection, every single book in the room was in English and covered topics related to the history of Hell and Lucifer, and there was an oddly large section on the religious practices of Hell. He glanced at the torch-sconces flickering with unnatural fire that illuminated the room. For a split second he considered trying to burn the personal library of the Abyss, but the impulse faded as quickly as it had formed. He doubted that he’d be given original copies of anything important. Also, that indulgent destruction might get him punished, and to be honest, he’d been so starved for entertainment that any book was incredibly welcome. He pulled several volumes from the shelves and began reading.

The act of reading academic texts was profoundly soothing. He was in his wheelhouse once more. Researching was what he’d always done when he was lost. That being said, the fact that the only available books had been selected for him by his captors was disheartening. Differing philosophies aside, Dean knew him well enough to know that he’d dive right into the library. They were spoon-feeding him information; the trick was that he wasn’t sure why he should let that be a problem as long as he kept it all in context. What was the harm in learning more about Hell, even if it was through apparent propaganda?

He had no idea what time it was, but approximately every three hundred pages of reading the guards would take him to be tortured by the trio. At least they didn’t torture him in the bedroom. It was almost as if he finally had a safe space. Overall, he felt like the situation was improving, though it wasn’t clear why that should be the case… and that was unnerving as hell. 

* * *

Dean entered the throne room, to find Abaddon receiving a report from a lesser officer assigned to the manhunt for Crowley. The cowering posture of the minion screamed a lack of qualification as far as he was concerned. They needed people with more predatory instincts to catch the sniveling weasel of the Crossroads.

“Our ops teams checked the fifteen most promising targets, but he wasn’t at any of them,” the man continued as Dean closed the double doors. The sound startled the underling, causing him to subtly flinch, though he didn’t dare turn his back on his queen to see who it was.

Behind the man’s back, Dean bared his teeth at the minion’s showing of fear, then raised an eyebrow at Abaddon, silently asking if she would allow him to have a bit of fun.  In that moment, nothing would’ve made Dean happier than  offering a critique of their current political and military support staff, through the medium of that single officer’s face. But she shook her head and held out a hand, wordlessly calling him to her side.

When he was standing next to her, she took his hand in hers, then gently used it to caress her cheek. She smiled up at Dean, but instructed the underling, “I expect results within four days, Earth time. If your people fail me again, I want you to deliver to me the ten that you decide are most deserving of punishment.” Her teeth briefly touched Dean’s knuckles, in a feign at a bite. “Understood?”

“Yes, your highness,” the man groveled, grateful to be leaving with his life.

“Now, leave us.”

The moment the officer was gone and it was just the two of them in the throne, Dean commented, “I’m surprised you didn’t threaten his life if he fucks it up again.”

She stood up, wrapped her arms around him, then leaned in as if to kiss him, stopping just an inch short in order to whisper, “If he knows I’m gonna kill him, he won’t return from another failed mission. Better to let him worry about where he’ll point the blame, if it’ll get him back where we can make an example of him.”

Dean’s affection flared at her ploy. He pulled her into a long, passionate kiss, then his forehead rested against hers as  they looked into each other’s eyes. “You deserve so much more than those idiots. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You’re doing a marvelous job with your projects, but the real headaches are best left to people with different strengths.” She lightly kissed the tip of his nose, then pulled back a bit before explaining, “Our military conquests are going fine. It’s the magical and contractual areas where we’re lacking. Crowley took a significant number of the higher ranking Crossroads demons as well as most of the spellcasters.”

“It can’t be that many,” Dean replied. “We would notice large concentrations of demons on Earth.”

“Spellcasters and Crossroads demons are rarer and more dangerous than the usual grunts,” she explained. “He doesn’t need many to keep himself concealed, and potentially be a pain in our ass. Meanwhile, he’s taken the cream of the crop from us. We don’t have the magical experts to fuel our R&D, and we don’t have the advisors that we need. As is, I’m going to have to appoint advisors that aren’t up to the standards of the Court of Hell.”

“I could lead hunting parties to try to find the deserters on Earth,” he suggested. “They can’t all be as well-hidden as Crowley.”

“Their loyalty will always be questionable.” She shook her head at the thought, then asked, “How’s your brother coming along?”

“Improving.  Sam seems to be settling into the room just fine,” he reported. “He’s already started working his way through the library.”

“Is he being any more cooperative?”

He considered the way his brother interacted both while receiving the gifts of clothes and a room, and also during their periodic sessions. There was a lingering coldness to him, which wasn’t particularly bothersome. Sam could be a stick-in-the-mud as long as he showed overall improvement, but it remained to be seen whether he would learn to play ball.

“He’s been a bit less hostile, but he isn’t going out of his way to be helpful by any means.” Dean pursed his lips. “It’s better than we’ve seen in a while.”

“How quickly is he going through the books?”

“Fast. That kid can read.”

Abaddon nodded in thought. “Maybe he’s ready for more to preoccupy him. A starved, curious mind like his…. I think he’s ready to give him something to sink his teeth into. It might be just what he needs.” She caressed his chest. “Go ahead and give him the next present.”

Dean grinned at her. “I can’t wait to see his face.”


	6. The Scorpion

The door to the bedroom opened and Dean walked in, causing Sam to hastily close the book he was reading and sit up on his bed.

“You like the room?”

Sam resisted the impulse to say something along the lines of, “No shit.” Instead he took a moment to collect himself before answering, “Yeah.”

Dean’s lips thinned subtly. “You can say more than one word answers.”

“Usually when I talk I get beat,” he replied, while trying, with only partial success, to keep his tone from getting too snarky. “I’m getting mixed signals.”

“I only hurt you when you need to learn a lesson,” Dean offered as some self-righteous justification. “I don’t want you to be a fucking mute. You’re learning; I get that. I’m trying to help you learn, but if you don’t figure out how to talk like an adult, then all I can do is spank you like a child.”

The characterization was enraging, but Sam tried not to visibly react.  Although, against his better judgment, he decided to argue a bit. “As far as I can tell, I get beat no matter what I do.”

“You just haven’t decided to grow up.” Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That’s not my fault.”

Sam pursed his lips as he tried to contain his anger. “If I try to be… better” —he had no idea exactly what that constituted, but he figured he might as well see how receptive Dean was generally— “will you just tell me what you want me to learn instead of using violence?”

The knight considered the request for a moment. He looked almost pleased with the turn; understandably so. He’d arguably won some ground by Sam ceding that minor cooperation. Unfortunately, that also gave Dean less justification for any indulgent beatings he might just feel like committing for kicks. Granted, it wasn’t clear how much Dean was concerned about things like justification or basing his decisions on reason. As far as Sam could tell, his brother was operating on a combination of blind loyalty and impulse, loosely woven together with the self-delusion of reason.

In an oddly unreadable voice, Dean replied, “We’ll see.” He yanked the book from Sam’s hands and tossing it onto the bed. “Come on. You need to see something.”

Sam followed him both out of fear and genuine curiosity. It was hard to imagine what his brother wanted to show him; it might either be a horror show or, based on the last while, some perverse gift.  He wondered if he’d finally be allowed to see Jody in some way that wasn’t explicitly in the capacity of a hostage. It’d been so long since he’d seen a friendly face, and while his captors would inevitably use her against him, that didn’t make the prospect of knowing that she was alright, even just for the moment, any less tempting. That being said, the farther they went, the farther they got from where he suspected the prison cells were, and the less hope he had. They wordlessly walked the halls for several minutes before descending three spiral staircases that seemed to go on forever , much to the dismay of his bad leg .

“Are you gonna bury my body in the concrete foundation?” Sam asked to break the silence. He was a bit surprised at himself for making a partial joke; evidently the more dignified treatment and the invitation to speak up more had worked to minorly disarm him.

“Please,” Dean scoffed. “Your head would go on the wall of the throne room.”

Sam tilted his head in a reflexive acknowledgement of the scenario. Over the last few years, he’d made a name for himself as an enemy of Hell. Abaddon had made it clear in their one-on-one meeting that his mere capture or death could be spun for political gain. Being made into a literal trophy felt apt.

They reached an oversized, ebony wood door at the end of a hallway. Dean opened the door, then gestured for Sam to walk in.

Initially he had a hard time discerning the content of the large, shadowy room. Nearly every surface was oppressively dark stone that was illuminated by hundreds of black-wax candles. There were two rows of seven stone bench pews before a fairly simple altar. It was some sort of temple.

At the front of the temple was a massive statue of a great, multi-headed beast. Unbridled ferocity collided with glimpses of beauty that nearly bordered on perfection. To Sam’s horror, he instantly recognized the idol of Lucifer. He remembered the archangel in that form. It was one of his visages while in the Cage. 

Sam staggered backwards, tripping and falling over a pew, breaking his tailbone on the hard floor. His arms groped around in the dark, trying to find something to hold onto for stability, but his head was spinning. It was taking nearly all of his self-preservation instincts to keep himself from fainting at the idol of his long-time abuser.  After a few terrifying seconds, he remembered that he wasn’t alone and looked to his brother.

Dean approached the statue and stared up at it with an unsettling look of almost reverence. Never in Sam’s life had he seen his brother experience piety—even after finding out that God was real. Seeing such a solemn reaction to Lucifer was befuddling. The guy had fucking spoken to the archangel. There shouldn’t have been a feeling of awe.

Without looking away from the statue Dean quietly said, “He made Hell and all demons. He’s responsible for us: this realm, the knights, even you. What did he want?”

“What?” He hadn’t been expecting such an introspective moment.

“You were him.” Dean turned to Sam. “What did he want?”

“To conquer the Earth and everything. He wanted to be loved and feared.”

“What about demons? He didn’t give a fuck about us, right?”

Sam watched his brother’s solemn expression in the dim, flickering light for a beat before confirming his assessment. “Farthest thing from his mind.”

The knight nodded to himself, then asked, “Are you scared of him?” Before he could answer, Dean grabbed Sam’s head and turned it up to look at the statue, then leaned in close to whisper, “You never have to be scared of him again. We’re going to make Lucifer obsolete. We’ll move beyond the devil,  and all his fucking failures. ” Dean’s hand patted him on the back. “You’re gonna help us move Hell beyond Lucifer’s plan.”

Sam shivered at the idea that they might want him to participate in something, let alone something that even tenuously involved Lucifer. He supposed, as much as he hated the thought of it, it made sense. They wanted him to embrace some supposed connection to Hell, and he did have a very unique perspective. He just wasn’t sure what they actually wanted from him.  “How am I supposed to do that?”

“By helping make us stronger than he left us. We’re at the beginning of a new era for Hell.” Dean reached down and grabbed Sam, lifting him up into a standing position. “We’re giving you this temple. From now on, you can visit here whenever you want—except during lessons. This is a place for you to come and think.”

Sam was beyond confused. “You’re giving me a temple?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t understand what he was supposed to do with a building in Hell, let alone a temple. It all seemed absurd. He didn’t even know the first thing about the religion of Hell—though he had books in his room. At least it seemed like it would be a safer location, similar to his bedroom.

“Wait, I can come here.” Sam raised his eyebrows. “I can walk over here?”

“Guards are gonna escort you for a while to make sure you don’t do anything dumb, but if you’re good… maybe we’ll just give you a hall pass.”

Sam tried not to seem overly excited by the possibility of moving around without a chaperone. He wasn’t sure how much that would help in him finding a way to escape, but it was better than nothing. Every ounce of autonomy that he could earn was a win. In as polite a voice as he could manage, he said, “I can behave.”

“We’ll see.” Dean patted Sam’s cheek, then started heading towards the door. Before Sam could start following him out, the knight told him, “Take a look around. See what you’re working with. When you’re ready, the guards outside will walk you back to your room.”

Sam watched his brother leave, closing the temple door behind him. Without the illumination from the hallway, the temple dimmed oppressively. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to explore the place when nearly every wall was obscured in shadow; he couldn’t even tell how high the ceiling was. Instead, he sat on the floor in front of the altar before the statue of Lucifer. At least there were enough candles around to light those artifacts. 

They wanted to do something that involved removing the villainous archangel from the power structure of Hell. He wasn’t actually opposed to anything that hurt Lucifer, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about it. Worse, Dean had been framing it as making Hell even more powerful than Lucifer had established. That thought was deeply unnerving, though he was plenty disturbed just being inside Lucifer’s temple. 

After a long while, he began cautiously exploring the building, hands fumbling around in the dark. The walls were rough to the point that he was scared of accidentally cutting his hands, so he tried his best to avoid them, once found. The temple had three levels that surrounded an atrium containing the large altar and the statue of Lucifer. Along the upper walkways were two dozen freestanding statutes that he couldn’t identify. When he returned to the main floor, he noticed a silver goblet sitting on the altar, previously unnoticed next to the haunting idol. Sam leaned in the stare at the goblet for a moment, then picked it up to examine it.

_ Everything became overly-saturated. Whispers called from far away as he suddenly felt dizzy. Images flickered briefly in his mind. The yellow-eyed demon raised the blood-filled silver cup to the idol of Lucifer. “I will give you a very special child,” Azazel pledged, then drank some of the blood. _

Sam dropped the goblet to the floor. The clattering of the metal on the stone floor startled him a second time. Some primitive instinct told him to escape, but there was nowhere he could go. He retreated to the top floor of the temple and sat in a dark corner, hoping to be left alone. The temple was somehow associated with Azazel and it had been given to him. Of course, it had. He was Azazel’s heir.

* * *

The realization that he’d had a vision hit Sam harder than any torture that had been inflicted on him since being captured. It was unsettling to suddenly have one of his powers reactivate, but worse than that was the fact that Dean and Abaddon had been right. The couple had been banking on the premise that his visions would return. They had even described it as the result of Hell healing or nurturing his demonic side…. Part of their theory had panned out. He shuddered to imagine what it would be like if they weren’t actually talking out their asses.

After composing himself enough to not appear suspicious, Sam had fled the temple. He’d nearly fallen on the stairs twice. In his haste to get back to his room, his bad leg had repeatedly buckled on the spiral staircases. Luckily, the guard had probably just assumed he was incompetent and/or disabled, more than scared out of his wits. When he finally got back to his room, he crawled into bed and tried desperately to calm down.

That place had been where part of the pact that cursed him was sealed. He hadn’t seen much of Hell, but the sinister building seemed different from every other place there. Not only was it darker and objectively menacing, it seemed to be literally carved from a different stone.  And the damn place was his. It had to mean something, but had no idea what.

They were trying to manipulate him, and apparently there had been some minor success. Somehow, without him noticing, they actually gotten a hook or two into him. His guard had been slipping recently. That was evident from the way he was getting almost conversational with Dean. 

If he was going to resist them, he needed to make changes, which would invite punishment, but it was worth the risk. He didn’t want to give in to whatever they were scheming at. They wanted him to have visions; well, he wouldn’t let them know that he’d experienced one. Sam tried to be more careful about his behavior. He used as few words as possible when responding to questions, and he didn’t volunteer anything, even complaints.

His newfound resistance was obviously noticed by Dean, who had started beating him more. It seemed like he hadn’t done enough to justify taking away his clothes or room, but there was definitely growing tension. Throughout his waking hours, Sam silently debated whether or not he was pushing his luck too far. It was a delicate balance, and his brother wasn’t exactly known for stability. Something was bound to break.

* * *

Dean was walking back to his and Abaddon’s quarters after another underwhelming round of prodding Sam. He glared at everyone he passed, causing them to scurry away before he could take out some of his frustration. His eyes were black with anger and if he’d bothered to look at himself in a mirror he would’ve seen the shadowy nimbus of his power darkening the area around him— And it was all Sam’s fault.

His brother was being an unreasonable, childish dick. Things had been going pretty well and then he’d suddenly gone back to the near-silent treatment. They had been working him in every way imaginable, yet the guy just continued to fizzle. He had the nerve to be so stubborn. It wasn’t as though there was a way out, but no, it was typical Sam to do his own thing regardless of what was good for everyone.

One minion had the poor judgment to make eye contact.

“You!” Dean called to him. “Here, now!”

The subordinate hurried over, keeping his head down in something akin to a bow or at least a desperate attempt not to provoke the knight. “Yes, sir.”

Dean wanted to hear some good news for a change. Aside from his special project of working Sam over, he had other priorities too. Hell needed to restore its offensive capabilities. Under Crowley’s rule, the realm had focused its attention to the Crossroads and other business aspects. Everything had turned inward, acting through the mere four corners of contracts and shadowy dealings to take advantage of pathetic humans. Hell had atrophied and part of his job was to help sharpen its barbs.

“How many hunting parties are assembled for topside?”

The underling hesitated for a moment before saying, “I don’t kno—”

Dean grabbed the demon’s shoulder so tightly that his collarbone shattered. His fingers squeezed the handful of trembling muscle and crumbled bone, pressing until his nails pierced the skin. With his other hand he punched the minion a few times, breaking most of his ribs. Two quick jabs obliterated his jaw. Blood sprayed in a cathartic splash of color and the sound of half a dozen teeth hitting the stone floor was almost soothing like the gentle strumming of a lullaby. He took a deep breath, letting the scent of the fresh blood wash over him. It helped a little, even if his problems weren’t solved.

“Go find out,” Dean instructed. “I want a full report within an hour.” He leaned in to hiss, “If I don’t have it by then, it’ll be carved into your skin.”

Through his mangled mouth, the underling dribbled, “Ye-sh, sh—”

Dean shoved him to the ground and kept walking before the subordinate could finish groveling.

He slammed the door to their quarters shut as soon as he was inside, causing Abaddon to glance up from the desk where she was working. Without bothering to explain or apologize for the outburst, he began cleaning his hands in their onyx washing basin. He’d barely started drying his hands with a small towel, when his frustration flared again and he punched the mirror in front of him. Looking down at his newly bloodied knuckles, he growled.

“Dean.” 

Abaddon beckoned him over to her with a curl of her finger. He knelt down in front of her and rested his head on her lap. She dragged her fingers through his hair in a way that somehow quelled a bit of his rage. He still wanted to tear apart anyone who might cross his path, but at least that impulse was returning to a more manageable, routine level. Her caress might bring him contentment or focus, but she would never take his brutality; it was one of their shared passions.

In a calm, deliberate voice she said, “Pet, we need to talk about your brother.”

He could imagine her concern. It’d been over four years and while they had made progress, recently things had slowed considerably. In general the improvement had been gradual with the occasional minor setback, but big picture, things were for the better. Then, shortly after giving Sam the temple, he’d withdrawn again. It didn’t matter how much Dean interrogated him or played nice, the guy wasn’t giving any insight into what had happened. He was becoming a larger resource pit than they’d anticipated, with hardly anything to show for it. “He’s worth it. I promise. If I can break him for you—”

“We aren’t giving up,” she assured him. “But we need to figure out what’s wrong.”

“He’s shutting himself off.” Dean lightly hugged her legs to him. “I don’t know what he’s thinking. I… I feel like, even if we threaten Jody, he’s just—how can I know he’s being honest with us? Something is going on with him and I just don’t know how to pry it out.”

She processed his words for a beat before observing, “He doesn’t trust us. He told me that. So he’s keeping a secret.” Her fingers gently massaged his scalp, easing even more tension. “Maybe we need a new player to pry the secret out?”

“I’ve interviewed our best torturers. I don’t know who else we’re supposed to use.”

“A familiar face?”

“Jody won’t help us, and he’ll spot if she’s a meatsuit in two minutes.”

“We’d need someone who wouldn’t mind betraying him,” she agreed.

“Well, excluding Crowley, that’s a short list. The kid was always popular with anyone who knew him,” Dean explained. “Cas is too good. He’d be suspicious of all the hunter buddies. Ruby blindsided him, but she’s dead. I can’t remember the last time he spoke to any of our dad’s contacts—“

“Who’s Ruby?”

Without thinking much about her, he replied, “She was the demon who tricked him into freeing Lucifer, and the one that got him addicted to demon blood.“

“How?”

Dean sat for a moment. He honestly wasn’t sure about the details of how she’d managed to talk Sam into such an extreme act. “I don’t know. She manipulated him, but I never  actually found out how she got him to go so far off the deep end. They used to fuck, but he isn’t really the type to think with his dick . We killed her without interrogating her.”

Abaddon lifted his head up so that their eyes met. “She has some skills.”

“She’s dead.”

“I was dead.” She stared at him knowingly.

His brain sputtered at the suggestion that they resurrect Ruby. He hated her; he always had.

“She ruined everything,” Dean said. “She’s an opportunist.”

Abaddon cupped his cheeks in her hands, then pulled him up into a kiss. 

“We have the power. She would beg for scraps from your hand.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing her soothing touch. 

When it came down to it he trusted Abaddon’s judgment, but it was still his responsibility to protect her. She was the only one that, if asked, he would admit to feeling apprehension—not fear; a knight didn’t fear a lesser creature. But Ruby…. she was problematic in every way imaginable. He could feel it in his broken soul.

“She’s dangerous,” he warned. “I don’t want her messing up our vision.”

“What are you worried that she’ll do?”

“Turn Sam against us.”

“He’s already withdrawn from us,” Abaddon countered. “If there’s any sign of her angling for control, we’ll kill her. If she can really sink her claws into him that much, then executing her would be a powerful lesson to him in what we’re capable of.”

In a softer voice than he normally used, he warned, “I’m worried about what she’ll do that we won’t see coming.”

“You were naive as a human. Back then you didn’t know what our kind is capable of.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “We’ll bring her back. I’d like to speak to her. If she fails to impress, you can tear her apart.”

* * *

Dean had his boots up on the table in their quarters, reclining in his chair. Abaddon was seated across from him, sitting with a bit more dignity. They’d just finished a nice meal. It was a rare treat for two creatures that didn’t technically need nutrition to survive, but it was an opportunity to slow down and indulge. He certainly felt like he needed something to help mitigate the inevitable souring of his mood. He picked up his crystal goblet of red wine and took another swig as he watched Ruby stand awkwardly just inside the doorway.

She was naked, and per the resurrection spell, in the same meatsuit she’d had when she had died. A few streaks of blood hadn’t been successfully washed from her before she’d been brought to their private chambers. Upon arriving, she had wisely scanned the room with her eyes, looking for threats, but after seeing nothing more than the two people in the room, she had more or less taken to staring at Dean in quiet horror.

Without taking her eyes off him, she quietly said, “This is Hell.”

Abaddon leaned forward in her chair and slid her hand along Dean’s arm, caressing him. “Yes it is. And he’s a servant of the realm.” He blinked his eyes black in demonstration, then she continued. “Dean tells me that you’re a conniving bitch. Is that right?”

Ruby swallowed, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. They’d gone to an awful lot of trouble just to insult her to her face. “Conniving: sure. Bitch: I guess that depends on who you ask.”

“You manipulated everyone around you in order to try ending the world.” Abaddon gave a little shrug. “Who’s gonna say you weren’t a bitch?”

“Mostly my co-conspirators,” Ruby answered. “I walked Sam to the brink with fair odds I’d die any given day. And I did. I’m nothing if not loyal.

“Loyal to Lucifer?”

Ruby stood silently for a moment, reading the room or carefully selecting wording. Dean could almost see the bladed gears turning behind her eyes. “Lucifer is dead, isn’t he?”

“Close enough,” Abaddon replied. “He’s out of the picture.” She started idly rolling an angel blade back and forth on the table. It was a better prop than the First Blade; at least Dean knew that she’d recognize the angel blade’s lethal potential. “So tell me, where are your loyalties?”

Dean waited for her answer with bated breath. He wanted her to give some ass-kissing response about being loyal to them. She didn’t give a fuck about him and hadn’t dealt with Abaddon before. The moment she slipped up, he’d grab the angel blade and strike. It wouldn’t be fast. He was already deciding how to carve her spine from her body without landing a merciful killing blow.

“I’m loyal to Hell,” Ruby answered. 

He narrowed his eyes at her in skeptical disappointment, but he didn’t interrupt the discussion. The decision of whether she would live or die was Abaddon’s, when it came down to it. He could advise her, but he wasn’t about to derail his queen’s inquiry.

Abaddon gestured invitingly at Ruby. “Explain.”

“As a human I was a witch—and not one of those oblivious, touchy-feely ones. I gave myself to Hell freely; I wanted it.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you how many times my village was conquered in my short, pathetic life.” There was a bitterness to her voice that was both worrying in its sincerity and also made Dean hopeful that she was pained by the memory. “Humans don’t know what they’re doing—I could see it even then—and fuck God. The only force in the world that got things done, that was worth a damn, was evil. Human factions come and go, but Hell is always there.” She paused a beat, stopping herself from a rant or maybe just reliving a whirlwind of unpleasantness. “When Lilith recruited me, she told me we could bring back the creature that made Hell. We could make sure that our home was powerful and glorious, with someone who would be able to defend it and our claims on Earth. After the angels showed, I realized that we were at war. It was about more than glory. It was a matter of survival.”

Abaddon stopped playing with the blade, then looked over at Dean. “What do you think?”

Dean idly chewed the inside of his lip. His instincts were screaming for him to kill her… admittedly, that was his first impulse with nearly anyone who rubbed him the wrong way. But they had a history, one that involved multiple levels of betrayal. She was as cutthroat as they come. He’d been wary of her before, but now he knew the full extent of her ruthlessness. And yet, that was part of her qualifications. 

“I hate her,” he replied. “She betrayed me when I was a human—but he was a little, sappy cunt.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Go ahead and ask her some questions,” Abaddon invited. “See if she can sate your curiosity.”

He glared at Ruby for a long while, trying to settle on what to ask. The old him would’ve yelled at her in anger for hours, without a single question. Currently, he didn’t particularly care about the sleight upon his former self. He was mostly concerned about whether her nature as a viper would come back to bite them. Figuring that out didn’t involve hours of yelling, as enjoyable as it might be, when he wasn’t also taking up Abaddon’s time. 

In the end, he kicked a goblet of red wine off the table at Ruby. The wine splashed across her, mixing with the crimson liquid of leftover blood. While her body was still tense, he asked, “How’d you break Sam?”

She swallowed, perfectly aware of the minefield she was about to venture into. “He was a good guy. He wanted to be good, more than almost anything.”

Abaddon raised an eyebrow. “What does he want more than that?”

“He wouldn’t admit it but he wanted recognition.  _ He _ wanted to be the good guy, the one to save the world. He wanted to be loved.” Ruby was shivering or trembling.

Dean quickly got up from his seat, then walked over to stand right next to her. They were so close that he could feel her chill flesh where her arm touched his chest. He towered over Ruby, who didn’t look up to meet his eyes; instead she stared straight ahead at their queen. He gripped her throat, just below her jaw. Seeing and feeling her fear, the thrill of it nearly made up for the fact that she was alive. 

He squeezed her neck, lifting her slightly, then hissed, “Are you saying that I didn’t love him?”

“It’s not that,” she choked out through his grip. “He-he knew there was something wrong with him—that he was corrupted. I-I knew exactly what he was and I made him feel like I loved him despite that.”

Dean replayed her words in his head. She’d been using the past tense the entire time she’d referred to Sam; she thought he’d died or been contained with Lucifer. He let go of her as he told her, “Sam’s alive,” then watched her reaction for any tells.

She stood there unmoving for several seconds. Her brow was furrowed in sincere confusion, but he couldn’t see any feelings of hope or disappointment on her face. “And Lucifer—I don’t understand.”

“Sam was only possessed for a while. He recovered.”

Her entire body was still but her eyes seemed to lose focus as she stared at nothing in particular, deep in thought. Dean clapped loudly, startling her, then said, “He’s here.”

She nodded. “He’s a prisoner?”

“Yes,” Abaddon said with a smile. “He’s an asset, if we could get him to give himself over to our cause.”

“And what cause is that?”

“Restoring Hell to glory.” Abaddon sipped her wine. “Do you think you can help Sam see the light?”

Ruby’s lips thinned subtly. “If he doesn’t trust me?”

“Clever girl like you knows he won’t trust you from the start. The question remains, can you help us get him in line?”

After a beat, Ruby cautiously asked, “Is it really a good idea to make someone he helped murder be the good cop?”

“He loved you, or the idea of you, or whatever hero story you sold him,” Dean replied coldly. It was true; he’d seen it on his brother’s face years ago. There wasn’t any denying it. “We’ve been pummeling him since he got here. We’ve tried pampering him, but he’s managing to be a stubborn dick regardless. Maybe it is time to use a different approach.”

“With another person, we can come at him from more angles,” Abaddon explained. “Keep pressuring him, continue welcoming him to his new home, and—” Abaddon gestured to Ruby. “—offer a more precision touch for the tender places he won’t let us tread.”

“I can do it.”

Ruby’s answer was the only one that wouldn’t get her immediately tortured or killed. Dean narrowed his eyes at her. She was sly; he just couldn’t prove that she was disloyal.

“I want you to listen close,” he snarled at her. “Your job is to make him cooperate and embrace his true nature. Kiss his ass, make him feel loved, whatever, if you think it’ll work, but don’t you dare forget yourself.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, earning a small tremble. “Don’t let his puppy eyes make you do something stupid because we’re watching you too. Don’t try to fuck us because you know how much I want an excuse to kill you again. And trust me when I say, it won’t be anywhere near as fast and painless as last time. You hear me?” 

She whispered, “Yes.”

“And never forget: your loyalty—your entire life—” Dean grabbed her head, forcing her to look at Abaddon. “—lies at her feet.”

“I understand.”

While holding her head still, he leaned in so that his lips were touching the side of her face and he whispered, “Good.” Dean dragged his fingers across Ruby’s torso, then let go of her head so that she could see him lick the trace amounts of wine and blood from his fingertips. He grinned mischievously at her before kneeling down and sliding his tongue along her wet abdomen. Below his hands, he could feel her tense. Knowing she was so scared started making him hard.

“Do you want to play with her?” Abaddon asked, inviting him to rape her.

In a single swift motion, he hit the back of Ruby’s knees as well as her chest, knocking her to the ground. He climbed on top of her naked body. While watching the expression of reserved horror on her face, he used his knees to push her legs apart. He moved in close, inhaling a deep breath in her hair. After taking a moment to relish her fear, he gripped her face, then slammed the back of her head into the stone floor.

He admired the small puddle of blood forming a halo around where he’d split her scalp. As he pushed himself up off of her, he replied to Abaddon. “She isn’t you.”


	7. The Unwelcome Companion

Sam was sitting on his bed, reading a brief history of the Crossroads up through the end of the Bronze Age. It hadn’t occurred to him that contracts might’ve existed back then, but upon reflection it made sense. As long as there had been language, there had been a demon whispering into the ear of humans, attempting to get more than a fair trade. 

Honestly, the truly surprising thing was that he’d found a book that included more than a cursory mention of the Crossroads. That was an institution of Hell that was suspiciously lacking in his library covering all things Abyss. His fingertips traced the spine of the thick book. Only about twenty pages discussed Hell’s legal branch…. If he’d had to guess, giving him those twenty pages had been an oversight. He glanced up at the bookcases, wondering whether any of the demon grunts that had assembled his quarters had bothered to actually read through the library or if they’d been selected based on the titles alone. As much as he enjoyed reading that particular work, he decided that it would probably be a wise investment to read through every single book before taking another pass at an old favorite.

Without warning, the door opened. Sam quickly closed the book and put it down on the mattress beside him as Dean entered. Thankfully, so far his brother hadn’t taken any interest in what he was studying. The important thing was that he was diligently working his way through the propaganda they’d provided and he was periodically spending time at the temple. After what certainly felt like a couple months, he still hadn’t figured out what he was supposed to do with a fucking temple other than stew in it. 

Whether his captor had intended it or not, Sam had had three fleeting visions while inside the temple. He wasn’t sure if he was being triggered thanks to interacting with objects that Azazel had touched or if the gloomy chamber was merely a point of magical significance. Regardless, his essentially forced exposure was pushing him deeper into the pit Dean and Abaddon were digging for him, but he didn’t want them to know that.

He’d tried to be as unforthcoming as possible while avoiding relentless punishment. Luckily, the couple seemed unprepared to strip him of his clothes and quarters. It was a possible punishment if he ever actively defied them, but taking away his creature comforts would create its own problem, moving him symbolically further from the place that they desired for him. Sam just hoped that while hiding the change in him, he wouldn’t accidentally upset the delicate equilibrium that had developed.

“Sammy,” Dean smiled at him. “We have another surprise for you.”

Sam felt nauseous at the possibilities. He couldn’t imagine what other gift would be given. Fuck, the temple had turned out to be more of a curse than a gift. It was some sort of torture, he was sure of that.

Dean snapped his fingers and two guards escorted a woman in— Ruby. She was in the same meatsuit that she’d been using when he’d last seen her. Instead of her usual outfit of leather pants, a tight t-shirt, and a leather jacket, she was wearing a simple, black linen dress. The muscles in her body were visibly coiled and he recognized her expression as suppressed fear. The way she took small steps and nearly leaned back a bit, she wanted to be as far from him and Dean as was physically possible—big surprise, considering they’d murdered her. 

Dean shoved Ruby further into the room, knocking her to the stone floor, then pointed at Sam and warned, “Now, don’t do anything dumb like trying to kill her. We went to a lot of effort to bring her back. And if we see any of her blood outside of her body, then we’ll take a trip back down to the rack.”

In a dazed voice, Sam managed, “W-what?”

“Abaddon and I have some work to focus on. We can’t be keeping you company, so we thought she could—“

“Jody!” Sam exclaimed, desperate to both get Ruby away from him, and see his injured and missing friend. “Let me spend time with Jody.”

“Jody’s a reward or punishment, and we both know you’ve been playing the middle of the road. I’m not just gonna give you one of the cards straight from my hand.” Dean crouched down beside Ruby, then grabbed her hair in his fist. “Anyway, you two used to hang out all the time.” He yanked her hair, throwing her slightly off balance before shoving her aside. All the while his eyes were fixed on Sam’s with an intensity that was chilling. Dean got up, then positioned himself to tower over Sam. “We’re giving you what you need, not coddling you with what you want. You don’t get Mommy or a friend to hold your hand and tell you it’s gonna be okay, because they don’t know what they’re fucking talking about.” He gestured behind him, toward Ruby. “She knows Hell. She knows you. Count yourself lucky.”

Sam looked at her, huddled on the floor beside his desk. He still had no idea why she was there. “What am I supposed to do with her?”

Dean shrugged in a move that was less than confidence-inspiring. “Practice talking; you spend all your time reading or hiding out in your temple—and it’s not like you’re chatty during your lessons.” He gestured at her. “Learn to be more assertive. Go ahead and smack her around, play with her, or whatever gets you off. Just remember not to kill her, or the queen will be very disappointed.” Without further explanation, the elder Winchester walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Sam simply stared at Ruby. He had no idea what to think of her presence. The way Dean had introduced her, it was almost as if she was supposed to be a gift. Clearly, his brother was nuts if he thought that Ruby would be a positive thing. Some time ago Dean had asked him about his relationship with her. At the time it had seemed like routine torture, but in retrospect he might’ve actually been probing to see if she would make an investment—to what end, Sam wasn’t sure.

The invitation to take out some anger on her seemed to rattle about in his mind. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t hurt someone else for kicks, but this was Ruby. She’d betrayed him so profoundly that it had forever changed the trajectory of his life and the world. Yes, he was angry at her, so much so that his brain couldn’t quantify it and all he was left with was seething rage the churned in his stomach, producing heartburn. 

No one would fault him for hurting her…. In fact, Dean would praise him. If he indulged in violence, he’d be giving into Abaddon and Dean’s goals for him. They wanted him to lose his humanity; arranging playdates with someone he would seriously consider murdering on a bad day felt like a good point on the curve. As much as he was pissed off at Ruby, he wasn’t about to give his captors the satisfaction of brutalizing her. Instead he just watched her for several seconds, loathing everything about the moment.

“I know you probably want to flay me for eternity, but—” Her eyes reflexively flicked to the closed door then back to him. “Why the fuck is Dean a demon?!? It’s him, right? Like  _ him _ him. He fucking remembered me. He’s not just a meatpuppet.”

Sam leaned back against the wall and covered his face with his hands. Her question was too reasonable for such an absurd situation. Somehow the fundamental question of ‘Why?’ had been broken along the way. He hardly had the willpower to rehash everything and he wasn’t yet prepared to waste that energy on her of all people. 

“They really thought bringing you back would help,” he groaned. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

“Seriously, what the hell is going on with Dean?”

He glared at her, then unenthusiastically replied, “Knight of Hell.”

“How?”

“Curse.”

“Curse? Care to fucking elaborate?” she asked in an annoyed tone.

He knew that she had been a witch and with her nosiness, she could probably spend an hour or two picking apart the details of Dean’s transformation. It seemed incredibly unlikely that she was remotely powerful enough to actually be a threat to the knight, but honestly Sam didn’t want to even risk the appearance that he was conspiring with her to turn his brother back into a human. There wasn’t a doubt in Sam’s mind that the two of them were being watched to see how they’d get along…. Maybe in a while, after some of the heat had died down, he might be able to get her professional opinion— He tried to stop himself from getting his hopes up.

“Shut up,” he told her. “Just drop it.”

To her credit, she didn’t keep pursuing the point. Whether she’d actually given up that avenue of investigation or if she’d simply decided to heed the voice of experience, he couldn’t tell. “This is insane, you realize—they’re insane.”

“Welcome to the show.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know.” He touched his jaw. His facial hair and nails had stopped growing, taking away that frame of reference for time. “A while.”

She nodded with a surprisingly sympathetic expression. Evidently, that phenomenon wasn’t completely unexpected. Depriving a person of their sense of time was a classic form of torture. It seemed that Hell, with its windowless chambers and lack of necessities like meals or sleep, was designed to do just that. If anything he was minorly aided by, as a mortal, needing both food and rest.

Sam stared at her dress. It lacked any aesthetic indulgences and was made from the same material as his shirt and pants. Like him, she wasn’t even wearing shoes. Dean had made it clear that there was some kind of hierarchy to the clothing. So far, aside from himself, Ruby was the only person he’d seen dressed in linen.  Based on what he could discern about the castes reflected in clothes,  she was also very near the filth of Hell, and it was made clear for everyone to see.

As he studied her, she approached the bookcases and began reading the spines. He didn’t like the idea of her touching his things, especially the library. So far he hadn’t really gotten the impression that any of his guards or torturers would consider them anything beyond set dressing, but she was different. Barbs and snark aside, she was the diligent sort who might very well read them. Her hand reached out to pick up one of the books, but he interrupted her.

“Don’t touch them,” he told her.

Her hand stopped short at his words and hung in the air for a moment. She was debating whether she’d ignore his demand. After a few seconds she went back to sitting on the floor by his desk. They both sat, brooding for several minutes, unsure what to do.

Eventually, Ruby asked him, “Do you know what I’m doing here?”

He didn’t really want to be chatting with her, but knowing her, ignoring her wasn’t a viable option. “I think they’re trying to buy my cooperation by giving you to me.”

“What’s this ‘giving’ thing?” she asked indignantly. “And what cooperation?”

“They want to recruit me or something, to use my powers. I’ve been trying to make them understand that I don’t have powers anymore.”

Her brow furrowed. “How’d you lose your powers?”

“They disappeared when I stopped drinking your blood.”  He hated hearing the last part of the statement come out of his mouth.

“The blood only boosted your demon-centric powers and fortified you as a vessel,” she told him. “It’s not like you convert demon blood into magic or something.”

“What?” Sam hesitated to tell her about the handful of minor visions he’d had in the temple. He’d assumed it was something related to the location. “I haven’t been able to use them for years.”

“Maybe ‘cause you thought you couldn’t.” She shrugged. “The power of positive thinking or, I guess, negative thinking.”

He thumbed the cover of his book as he considered her comments about his powers. She seemed to be speaking with relative confidence. It made some sense that she’d understand the basic mechanics; part of her earlier mission had been teaching him how to use his powers. That might’ve been an unspoken reason for bringing her back in particular. Dean and Abaddon probably wanted to jumpstart his visions and were hoping that lightning would strike twice with Ruby. If that was the case, he suddenly felt a bit of regret for keeping his three recent visions a secret.

Sam reconsidered her words with a little more weight of authority. She’d made a distinction between the powers that he was using before and after he’d become addicted to demon blood. “My visions were a different type of power?”

“Yeah. That stuff is more inherent, but I was ordered to get you in shape to kill Lilith.” She idly fiddled with the bottom hem of her dress. “Your natural power is nice and all, but psychic visions don’t pack a punch in a fight with a white-eyes.”

The reminder of her thorough manipulation of him made him glare at her, but the truth was that he consciously let the expression linger for effect. Below the surface, he was busy worrying about the idea that the visions might’ve truly been some dormant side of him. Dean had brought him to Hell to foster that part of him. Nature, nurture, exposure to an otherworldly plane—whatever the fuck it was, something was definitely affecting him.

He didn’t know what to do with her. Ideally, he’d stab her in the back while kicking her out the door, but that wouldn’t fly. Not only would stabbing her make her bleed—something that would probably cause half a dozen armed guards to teleport into the small room to subdue him—making her leave didn’t seem like a viable option either. She was supposed to keep him company for a bit while Dean was busy with something. The guards in the hall would probably stop any attempt to expel her from his room.

At first he tried to ignore her and go back to reading his book, but he kept compulsively peeking to make sure that she wasn’t messing with his stuff. Each time he checked, she was just sitting on the floor directly across from him, staring at him. It was fucking unnerving.

After a while, she asked, “Can I sit on the chair?”

“No,” he replied immediately, then sighed. “We should just go to the fucking temple. Then at least we can be on different floors.”

“Temple?” Her furrowed brow rose in an unwelcome moment of realization. “You’ve been to the Dark Temple?”

“Pitch black pit with a statue of Lucifer? Yeah.” He hated the fact that the temple had a name and that she’d heard of it.

“And we can go there?”

“They gave it to me a while back. I can go there pretty much whenever—”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “They fucking  _ gave you _ the Dark Temple?”

The shocked tone of her question and flabbergasted look on her face suddenly hit him. The temple didn’t just have a name; it had significance.

His mouth wavered for a moment as he tried to figure out what he was trying to ask. “Why are you acting like that? What’s it mean?”

She ran her fingers through her hair, then cautiously explained, “The Dark Temple is traditionally controlled by a….” Her hesitant pause made his stomach churn. “A holy figure, like a cleric, that serves the throne.”  
He nearly laughed at the absurdity that he would be a holy man for Hell. “No fucking way. I am not a cleric.” He felt ridiculous even saying it. “And I am especially not a cleric for… this place.” In an oddly desperate move, he gestured emphatically in a random direction while saying, “It used to be Azazel’s gig, right? He was a soldier-demon-thing. We fought him on Earth. He wasn’t some guy in robes and a silly hat.”

Ruby gave him an annoyed look at the visual, probably offended by the depiction of her late boss. “Azazel got his hands dirty. It’s Hell; we all get our hands dirty. But he was a legit holy man. The guy spoke to Lucifer while the archangel was still in his cage, and worked his will.” She tilted her head to the side, then added, ”Meanwhile, you actually were joined with Lucifer. That plus your old visions—a lot of demons might think you’re some hot shit holy figure. And it sounds like that’s the narrative Abaddon and Dean are angling for.”

“I’m not.” His heart was pounding in his chest at the terrible scenario. “I’m not some Satanic, pious servant of Hell.”

Ruby let out a long sigh, clearly unenthusiastic about the entire situation. “I was minding my own business—dead, all peaceful nothingness, then I get my ass dragged back here to babysit you or make you not want to kill yourself or whatever. Do you think I—me of all people—think that you’re a holy cleric? I’ve sucked your dick and watched you do a crossword puzzle in your underwear. I’m playing Devil’s advocate.”

“Like always,” he hissed.

“I’m just saying: you don’t need to convince me that you aren’t what they’re setting you up to be.”

The sentence had barely gotten out of her mouth when four guards entered. Two stood poised ready to intercept Sam if he should try anything, which he most definitely didn’t. The other two grabbed Ruby. She struggled reflexively against them until one began beating her with a metal baton. They dragged her away and slammed the door, leaving Sam alone in the bedroom.

He sat, blinking in confusion at what had just happened. Someone had definitely been watching him and Ruby, and didn’t like what she’d said. Unfortunately, it seemed like the thing that had triggered the punishment was Ruby’s insistence that Abaddon and Dean were peddling a false prophet. That didn’t bode well for him resisting that characterization when they finally chose to let him in on the game plan. 

His eyes drifted over to his personal library, which contained a disproportionately large number of religious texts and histories. They’d wanted him to study for the part. He once again thought about burning the books in protest, but it felt like a futile gesture. They would just punish him and he’d probably come back to an identical library. 

Sam got up and began searching through the books on the religious history of Hell. He didn’t bother with the tables of contents; he went straight to the indexes. In the fourteenth book, he saw a significant section on the history of the Dark Temple. He flipped to it and began reading the dozens of accounts of the temple’s leadership. There had always been a keeper of the holy site, someone with a connection to Lucifer, and often with powers of divination.

He dropped the book and buried his face in his hands for a few seconds, trying to keep himself from crying. Part of him had always known that his captors had plans, but now he was seeing that rumors and reputation were wheels already turning beyond his grasp. He’d been seen as a holy figure thanks to his connection to Azazel. Holding him had been a boon, just as Abaddon had told him long ago. And by gradually exposing him to Hell’s holy site and texts, they hoped to slowly make him into the caricature they sought. With three visions under his belt, they were getting exactly what they wanted. They just didn’t know it yet.

He lay down on his bed and tried to block out everything else with his thin, lumpy pillow. Some time later the door opened, startling him into a half-sitting position. The guards wordlessly returned Ruby to his room, then left. 

Bruises were forming on her arms and legs. Based on the splint on her left wrist, her arm had been broken in the beating. He didn’t know what to say to her. She looked up at him with an intensity that unnerved him. In a stilted tone she said, “If they say you’re a holy figure, then I believe them.”

He could see her discomfort. She was being forced into playing a part just as much as him. He glanced down at the bruises, silently acknowledging her injuries, then dryly replied, “Maybe I am.”

* * *

Sam was pleased to learn that Ruby wasn’t meant to live in his bedroom like some sort of stray dog. After a long while of uncomfortable silence, she was collected by a guard and taken away to do who-knew-what-else, possibly just waiting in a closet somewhere for the next time that Dean felt like putting him in a bad mood. The overall routine was largely unchanged, but every once in a while, Ruby would be brought in to spice things up. She even sat in on one of Sam’s beatings, though she didn’t actually watch. 

The fourth time she was delivered directly to his room, they shared a look of mutual disappointment that they’d have to spend an unknown amount of time in such close quarters. But as Sam went to pick a new book to read, she interrupted him.

“God, shoot me now if I have to watch you read for another five hours.”

“Go on and leave,” he told her. “Maybe if you’re lucky, Dean’ll be pissed and just murder you for desertion.”

“He already made it clear that the murder comes at the end of a very long bit of torture.”

“One can hope.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her flipping him off, but he didn’t do her the courtesy of candidly looking.

“Trust me. If I could leave, I would, but I’m stuck here babysitting your ass.”

It was true. As much as they might want the case to be otherwise, they were temporarily stuck together, lest they invite punishment…. But no one had said that they had to stay in his tiny bedroom, just because that’s where she’d been dropped off. Without a word, Sam started heading for the door.

“Hey!” Ruby exclaimed at the sight of him heading towards where the guards were. “Don’t narc!”

Sam opened the door to see the two guards, waiting at attention outside. They eyed him, then one leaned to the side a bit to take a peek at Ruby, who was standing awkwardly next to the bookcase.

“I want to go on a walk to the temple,” Sam told the guards. He was allowed to freely travel between his room and the Dark Temple, surely he could at least do that with Ruby figuratively shackled to him. “Is she enough of a chaperone or are you two coming with us?”

The two guards exchanged uncertain looks, then began whispering to each other in that language that he’d periodically heard spoken between demons. They seemed to be debating something, probably trying to interpret instructions that didn’t anticipate such a broad and ambitious request. Eventually, one of the guards agreed to follow them as a precaution, but that was still a win as far as Sam was concerned.

Ruby seemed just as surprised as anyone that they were being allowed to do something more than wallowing in their shared loathing. As they walked, the guard stayed roughly twenty feet behind them, possibly trying to take in the full picture for threats–or maybe he just didn’t want to listen to their bickering. Sam intentionally took his time walking, dragging out the activity as much as he could, which wasn’t hard thanks to his bad leg.

“What’s with the limp?” Ruby asked, eyeing his clumsy gait.

“Got maimed,” he replied, uninvitingly.

“I thought they were using non-permanent torture on you.”

He glanced at her genuinely curious expression. She always did want to know everything. “It wasn’t torture. Hellhound jumped me when I tried to make a break for it.”

“You tried to escape?” To her credit she didn’t call him an idiot. “There are only three ways off this plane, and I guarantee that one of them isn’t through a Hellhound’s digestive tract— Actually, dying is one of the three, but then you’ve got fair odds of just coming back down as a soul and going straight to the pit. I don’t recommend it, all the way around.”

Cute commentary aside, Sam barely heard the last bit she said. He was too busy trying not to react to the crumb she’d dropped earlier. There were  at least two nonlethal ways out of Hell… and she knew them.  He’d already dismissed the backdoor to Purgatory as likely being sealed or merely impractical without an exit strategy from there, but even if she was counting that route, there was still another she knew about.  More than that, she was just the conniving sort of person to have intentionally slipped that information to him under the guise of teasing. He glanced over at her with a furrowed brow. One corner of her mouth was curled into a knowing smile. Obviously, he couldn’t start picking her brain on an escape plan there and then, but for the first time in what felt like years, he had a tiny flicker of hope.

He didn’t have enough context or capacity to think up a witty retort, so he just told her, “Go fuck yourself,” loud enough for the guard to hear.

The truth was that it was kind of nice to have someone to interact with who wasn’t going to assault him at any given moment, though, upon reflection, he hadn’t had as many sessions with the trio recently. It seemed like the more he kept active, the less Dean tried to fill his time with beatings. The trick was that he needed to be doing an activity that was beneficial to his re-education. Lucky for him, socializing with Ruby and taking tours of Hell appeared to count. 

After the success of their first walk to the Dark Temple and back, they were allowed broader routes. Eventually, they hardly spent any time at all in Sam’s room. Ruby would knock on his door and they would set out on their stroll—lone guard in tow, of course. Independent of the exercise and time without punishment that it provided, Sam also appreciated having something of a native guide, even if they tended to butt heads. She sprinkled trivia and explanations throughout, giving him better context for what the hell was happening than he’d gotten over the course of all of Dean and Abaddon’s manipulative interactions. 

It was strange. The more they explored, the more things made sense in odd ways. For what felt like years, the monotonous, grey hallways of Hell had been an incomprehensible maze. In order to get to the temple, he’d had to memorize thirty-one steps of directions, and even then he’d gotten lost multiple times, only to be collected by an angry guard. But after their ninth walk, the hallways were starting to get recognizable for no obvious reason. And the faint howling echoes that had haunted him earlier—maybe he’d grown used to them or there was a trick in the acoustics outside of his cell—but it seemed to be closer to a faint Gregorian choir or some other archaic music. The more time he spent walking the halls of Hell, the less intimidating it became.

“I don’t remember what happened to the ringleader, but that whole pyramid scheme went bust and literally everyone had their faces cut off,” Ruby finished up a story about some torturer demon that she knew a century earlier, who’d been caught up in some other demon’s shortsighted plan. “Basically, don’t trust a blade-demon to know how a fucking pen works.” She shot a quickly innocent glance over her shoulder to see if the guard was upset, but evidently the grunt had tuned them out some time ago.

Sam looked down a corridor that she had passed without explanation. “What’s down there?”

“An ass whoopin’,” she replied quietly. “Come on.”

He stood firm, but didn’t attempt to go down the ominous hallway. “Seriously, tell me.” He let out an annoyed huff. “This place is a fucking maze anyway. It’s not like I’m gonna find my way back here.”

Ruby put her hands on her hips as she glared at him. “I’m not taking responsibility if you decide to go get your ass torn apart by a hound.”

“It was my leg.”

“Ass-adjacent.” She sucked her teeth, then said, “There are arcane labs down that way, but they’re all off limits for now.”

He continued walking so that the guard wouldn’t approach them, but lowered his voice and asked, “For now?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, in some sort of wordless acknowledgement, then continued at normal volume, “I used to work in the arcane labs. I might be a jack of all trades, but this bitch is a master of at least one.”

“There’s no way Dean is gonna trust you near magic,” he rebuffed the idea.

“While you’ve been jerking off in your solitude, I’ve been putting in time for community service.” She shot him another pointed look. “If things keep going well with you, then that reflects well on me. And maybe Dean will finally see I’m a team player.”

It didn’t take a genius to see that she was asking for him to not fuck things up for her. All things being equal, he would prefer to sabotage her at every turn, especially when her boon required him to play nice with his tormentors. And yet, as far as he could tell, she was the closest thing he had to an ally. Getting her access to an arcane lab could help him in the future. Also, she knew a couple paths out of Hell, both of which certainly took literal or political power, otherwise she wouldn’t still be hanging around as a potential punching bag for Dean. The trick was that he needed to keep up if he was gonna ride her wake out of there.

He nodded, trying to convey that he’d read between the lines. “Don’t fuck it up.”


	8. The Game

Dean was standing in his usual spot at Abaddon’s side. His hand rested on her shoulder, gently massaging her neck as she sat on her throne. He knew perfectly well that she didn’t need him to defend her, but he enjoyed watching her exert her dominion over all of Hell. Whenever he wasn’t drilling troops, overseeing interrogations, or working on Sam, he was with her, supporting her to the best of his ability, helping her attain their shared vision for a more powerful Hell.

She had been taking reports from various parties for the last few hours. One of the upcoming crises was the understaffing of many skilled demon positions. Many of the more academic and trade demons had been loyal to Crowley and had either fled at the same time or been executed during the regime change. As a result of the staffing shortage, some of the protection magic that fortified Hell was beginning to suffer tiny fractures. The remaining spellcaster minions were working to maintain it as best they could, but the situation would eventually deteriorate. Abaddon had assigned torturer demons to seek out the souls of witches or other magically attuned prisoners, and work them into demons as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, that was still a multi-year solution.

In better news, they’d identified nearly 700 hunters, and in the process incidentally killed forty-five. With a little luck, the hunters would be too disorganized to recognize the pattern until it was too late. Currently, their forces were preparing and looking for the right time to wipe out the hunters. Moving too soon would leave the undiscovered hunters to go underground, but the longer they waited, the more likely some clever hunter would notice the unusually high mortality rate. From Dean’s perspective in Hell, the project had been going for nearly five years and it was long overdue for a slaughter, but Abaddon kept reminding him to be patient. It had only been two weeks on Earth and reconnaissance took time. Hell’s expedited flow of time had its benefits, but also its drawbacks.

He was just about to suggest that they take a break, when the double doors opened and Ruby walked in. She moved with visible reluctancy, not wanting to get within striking distance of him. Of course, he could easily spring upon her anywhere and at any time if he had the whim. 

Abaddon beckoned her closer with a wave of the hand. “How is Sam doing?”

“I’m seeing a lot of improvement,” Ruby summarized. “He’s asking questions about Hell, and it seems like he’s genuinely curious, even about all the dull stuff. It’s like he finally got tired of being bored. When we go on walks, I’ll sometimes let him get ahead of me to see how confident he is walking around. I think he’s starting to feel the effects, even if he doesn’t know it yet. He doesn’t act as lost and he isn’t as twitchy when we’re passing through the glows.”

It had taken Dean a few months to realize that Hell had undercurrents. There were ripples and streams of unholy energy that moved throughout both the Upper Crust and the Lower Dungeons. There were a few points of convergence, which teemed with stronger or different energies, such as the throne room or the Dark Temple, but for the most part they were less noticeable. Non-demons apparently perceived them as the faint sound of screaming, unexplained feelings of dread, or the like. Demons rarely noticed them at all or maybe felt it as a spring in one’s step.

“How is he at the temple?”

“I haven’t gone there with him,” she replied apologetically. “I don’t think he likes it there.”

“It might grow on him,” Abaddon suggested. “Especially if he’s starting to lose the human squeamishness.”

Ruby chewed the inside of her lip. “He knows you want him to be your cleric, and he’s smart enough to know that going to that temple is walking right into that plan. Something about that place has him spooked and I’m guessing it’s more fear of being your bitch than it is some statue of Lucifer,” she answered, then quickly added, “With respect.”

Dean looked down at Abaddon, hoping that she’d give him the nod to go punch Ruby in the face, but instead she said, “Can you get him there?”

Ruby thought for several seconds, then answered, “On a fundamental level, he seems to understand that cooperation has its perks. I might be able to convince him that if he makes a good show of his studies, you’ll loosen the chokehold a bit. He doesn’t like the guards following him—”

“No,” Dean said, then turned to his queen. “We can’t just take our guards away. He’ll take an opening and fuck us.”

“We won’t remove all the guards,” Abaddon agreed.

“Once again, with respect.” Ruby turned a bit pale as she pushed her luck. “The guards make him nervous. If you want him to feel like part of this court, eventually you’re gonna have to give him a little dignity. Do you want your court cleric flinching when he hears someone moving behind him?”

“I want a court cleric, who has seen in a vision, what’s moving behind him,” Abaddon replied. “He isn’t having visions yet. We aren’t seeing results.”

“Then, help me get him in that temple, and not with him bound and gagged.” Ruby shifted, uncertain whether to visibly beg. “He’s opening himself up more. We can get him to see reason,  _ our _ reason. He just needs to get there without a gun to his head.”

Abaddon thought for a minute, then replied, “If he shows the good faith of going to temple, then we’ll drop the tail. But there will still be routine guards stationed, including at his quarters and around off-limits areas.”

“Thank you, your highness.” Ruby bowed with a distinct lack of grace.

“And Ruby,” Abaddon added before her audience could retreat. “Your survival is based on his success.”

“I assure you, I’m painfully aware of that.”

“Good girl.” She waved, dismissing Ruby. “Go prove your worth.”

Ruby gave an odd little curtsy in her black linen dress, then got out of there as quickly as she could without running. As soon as the doors were closed, Dean walked over to the table with the decanter and goblets, then poured two glasses. He handed off one to Abaddon before taking his first sip.

“We should be toasting, Pet,” she told him. “Why do you look so upset?”

Dean took another swig, buying himself some time to articulate his feelings. He didn’t want to admit that he was feeling a bit jealous, but he wouldn’t dare hide anything from Abaddon.  “She’s making progress with him.” He clenched his fist. “I’m his brother.”

“You’ve spent the last few years flaying him piece-by-piece.”

“She tricked him into damning the world.”

“Have you heard of the phrase, ‘what have you done for me lately?’” Abaddon stood up and embraced him, tenderly kissing just below his ear. “He’s starting to come around. We’re in the rebuilding stage. The baseline pain falls away, and now we show him how to be a demon. It doesn’t matter if she flipped the switch; you’ll get your chance to help make Sam the man he’s meant to be.  He’ll truly be your brother again. ”

Dean cupped her cheek in his hand, then kissed her passionately.  He was so grateful to have her in his life, keeping his vision clear. For a moment he thought back to that terrible aimlessness he felt before her, but he pushed the thought from his mind. They were together, making each other stronger, both in their ruthlessness, but also in their judgment. She was right to look towards their goals, instead of dwelling on the imperfect methods.

“Ruby is good at what she does,” he admitted. “And I don’t like it.”

“This isn’t like before. She’s working for us this time.” Between kisses, Abaddon told him. “Torture her if you wait. Do whatever you want with her. Do whatever you need to feel better.”

He rested his forehead against hers, then closed his eyes while whispering, “I still don’t trust her.”

Her fingers gently raked through his hair as she said, “There’s a difference between trusting that someone can do their job or they’ll do what’s necessary to survive, and trusting someone to protect you.” Her delicate lips barely touched his in the most tender kiss he’d ever known. “We can only trust each other to truly protect us. Everyone else is a cog in a machine that we’re constructing. Don’t give those small things the power to hurt you. Don’t give them the trust from your heart, Love.”

* * *

Sam had barely gotten back from a stroll with Ruby when Dean stopped by to collect him for a lesson. As they walked to their destination, his right leg was aching from overuse of the damaged knee. He briefly wondered if that was some subtle ploy of his brother’s, to tack one long walk right on the end of another, but honestly he doubted that Dean gave much thought to such an old injury. It’d lost its excitement and was just some tragically human flaw. Regardless, the true sinister intent of the outing was soon revealed.

“I was thinking that this lesson we’ll play a game,” Dean told him.

Sam recognized that they were heading through corridors that led to one of the prisoner holding areas. Thankfully, his old cell was at least a mile away, so he wasn’t particularly concerned about becoming trapped again as some sort of roleplaying scenario.

“A game?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fun. Here’s the game: we’re going to a cell containing four people—humans. At least one of them is gonna die.” Dean’s hand settled on Sam’s back in a warm gesture. “If you kill one of them, then we’ll let the other three go. If you don’t kill anyone, then I’ll kill all of them. If you hesitate, apologize, or any shit like that, then I’ll kill all of them. Got it?”

It felt like Sam’s stomach dropped half a foot, but Dean didn’t seem to notice the brief misstep the shock caused. That sounded like a trap if he’d ever heard one. He wanted to refuse, but that base had already been covered. If he tried to resist, Dean would murder all of them. It was a classic trolley car problem, only with the knight orchestrating it, the whole thing was bound to be more unpleasant.

“Can I say anything to them?”

Dean stopped walking and forcibly turned Sam to look at him. “Sammy, I know it’s a game, but this is still important.” He touched his brother’s cheek. “You need to really try for me. It’s not your fault you have a handicap. We don’t want to take away your soul or anything like that. Unfortunately, that means we have to give you a lot of lessons to make up for it.”

The mention of removing his soul was an unmistakable threat, and it hit its mark with perfect accuracy. He’d assumed that with him cooperating a bit more, that the possibility of tampering with his mind like that had been entirely removed from the discussion. So blindsiding him by even just mentioning it was deeply unsettling.

Dean pulled him into a hug. He could undoubtedly feel Sam trembling. “You need to learn how to not hesitate when it comes to killing humans. That means practice.”

In a weak voice Sam whispered, “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

Dean turned his head slightly, pressing his cheek against Sam’s, then snarled in his ear. “This is happening. Either you kill one or I kill four. What you want only matters within the choices I give you. Now go in there and fucking murder someone,  or I will take my disappointment out on every last one of them.”

He considered standing firm on the issue, but he could see how that would play out: Dean would simply brutalize him—which Sam would normally endure without hesitation—the real problem was that all four of the prisoners would surely be killed…. And as much as he hated to admit it, deep down in Sam’s gut, there was a fear that maybe removing his soul might go back on the table. He’d struggled for years to survive; the idea of having it all stripped away over a couple wrong choices was terrifying. There’d be a time to stand up to Dean, but it wasn’t during an already hopeless situation like this. He’d lost the luxury of a moral stand long ago.

“Okay,” Sam told him. “I understand.”

When they reached the cell where the prisoners were being held, Sam glanced at Dean. He was supposed to go murder someone, so he was expecting to be given a metal baton or something—not a knife. He wasn’t allowed to have anything that was likely to draw blood. But no weapon came. The knot in his stomach at what he was being asked to do turned to ice. He was supposed to kill someone with his bare hands. He’d only ever killed one monster without a weapon. It was a nearly unheard of practice, the kind of thing that obnoxious hunters bragged about while drunkenly telling stories. He had absolutely hated the experience, and that was a monster; this would be a human. 

Dean gave him a knowing smirk, then gestured at the door. “You’ve got ten minutes to win the game. If you aren’t done by then I get to take my turn. Time starts now.”

Sam took a few deep breaths to steel himself, then opened the door to the cell. There were two men and two women, one manacled to each wall of the room with their arms secured behind their backs. As soon as he was inside and saw their faces, he recognized them all as hunters. He’d worked jobs with Rosa Mendez, Annie Popov, and Clark… he couldn’t remember his last name. The fourth hunter looked familiar, though he was more of a contact of Bobby’s.

It was worse than a generic exchange of actively killing one person to prevent the passive deaths of four. These people knew him. Maybe they weren’t exactly friends, but they were the good guys, taken from the field and made pawns in an attempt to teach him a lesson. 

But more than the injustice of it, there was another hiccup that entered his mind: at least one of them certainly knew who he was. That’s why Dean had chosen them. If he killed one of them, the other three would be allowed to return to Earth… having witnessed him murdering one of their own. Gossip traveled far and fast in the hunter community. In hardly any time, his name would be tarnished back home. Maybe there might be a few people that would see through the puppetry and suggest it was under duress, but regardless he’d be branded as a pawn of Hell, willing or not.

Or... he could turn his back and leave. He could apologize or try to comfort them or say anything that might lessen his guilt, then step aside and allow Dean to kill them all. His hands wouldn’t have squeezed the life out of anyone. He wouldn’t have to feel that horrible sensation again. And he would come out of it without the awful rumors drifting around on Earth, turning his support network against him. Through weak assurances, Jody was still on ice somewhere down there. He had no idea what Castiel was thinking about the entire situation. And beyond them, everyone he could call upon on Earth was at risk of being turned against him.

“Sam?” asked Annie. 

He internally cringed at her saying his name aloud. Now they all certainly knew enough to identify him. His body was cold, but he could feel sweat beading on his skin. The hammering of his heart was so strong, he started to feel a bit faint. 

“What’s going on?” added Clark.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he’d been in there, but he knew the rough timelines of his options. Smothering a person takes approximately seven minutes to ensure death. Cutting off the blood flow to the brain was approximately six minutes. Snapping the neck was much faster, but he wasn’t honestly sure he could do it correctly, and if he messed it up the victim might still be hanging on to life when the time ran up. 

He knelt down and gripped Clark’s throat, then squeezed the sides, cutting off the blood flow. Clark kicked twice, but passed out within seconds. The three other hunters shouted and fought against their bindings trying to stop him. The sound of their threats and pleas made him feel lightheaded. He wanted to cry, but showing remorse might be enough to break the rules on the game. After the first minute of holding Clark in that deathgrip, the sound of the others screaming faded in his mind as he tried to tune them out. He was trying to focus on counting, to make sure he did the job right so that they might survive. By the time he reached five minutes into his count, the silence was real. The three hunters were all quietly watching him in horror.

After a safe six minutes thirty seconds, he let go of the body and stood up as quickly as he could. He wanted to have their eyes off of him. As soon as he got back into the hallway and closed the door, he collapsed to the floor and threw up. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked up to see Dean casually leaning against the opposed wall.

“I’m a man of my word,” the knight told him. “The leftovers will be back on Earth within the hour.”

“I know they will.” He looked back down at the puddle of vomit between his trembling hands. “And I want to wash my hands.”

By the time they reached his bedroom, an onyx washing basin had been delivered.

* * *

Sam was seated on one of the back pews of the temple, with his back turned to the statue of Lucifer. He scowled at the floor while flicking bits of candle wax from the seat next to him and watching them disappear into the gloomy corners of the room. His captors gave him slightly more autonomy when he was in the temple, which was a relief. They probably expected him to be dwelling on the unholy divine rather than wallowing in self-pity, but so far no one had asked him for an itemized list of how he was spending his time. Dean and Abaddon probably didn’t even care that he wasn’t actively praying; they couldn’t be holding his hand 24/7, and simply sitting in the shadow of Lucifer was probably some form of exposure therapy.

In the big picture, he much preferred keeping company with a statue of his old tormentor to some of the other options. He had been forced to play the murder game twelve times. Only the first few rounds were hunters. Now the groups were just random assortments of humans: men, women, children, rich, poor, whoever. In an attempt to add some levity, there was even a round full of priests and he was encouraged to try picking out the pedophile. The whole thing was unpleasant and annoying, but luckily, he’d never been collected from his temple to go play a round. Evidently, some things were still sacred.

Unfortunately, since Sam had no ideas regarding or interest in doing clerical things once at the temple, he was left with little to occupy his time. He’d started taking whichever book he was currently reading with him out of some not-entirely-rational fear that he’d return to his room to find his precious library tampered with or made into a novel new hostage. And yet, with the temple being largely jet black and poorly lit, there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d be able to get much reading done.

He eyed the thick leather-bound book on the rise of Utilitarian Theory in Hell. His hand lingered on the cover for a moment as he slowly opened it and examined the pages. The words were legible, much more than he would’ve anticipated. Even accounting for the human eye’s normal adjustment to darkness, that didn’t mean one should be able to read small text that was a couple feet away. It didn’t make sense. He closed the book, then gently tossed it back onto the bench, eager to distance himself from the odd discovery.

His sight was off. Maybe there was some ambient dimness throughout Hell that had, unbeknownst to him, started affecting his eyes. That was just what he needed, to finally make it back to Earth and having to live for the rest of his life perpetually wearing sunglasses. At some point he’d have to beg for a mirror so that he could see how badly his eyes had dilated.

He looked around the temple with a new appreciation for the details he hadn’t noticed before. There were engravings on the walls, but he couldn’t quite make out the designs. He hastily turned his attention to the floor before his mind started churning out haunting interruptions of the meticulously crafted scenes. With the most glorious and terrifying physical form of Lucifer looming in a place of honor, he had no doubt the rest of the artwork would leave him feeling equally sick.

A single set of light footsteps came from down the hallway leading to his temple and echoed off its many hard surfaces— At least the walls were good for something. He turned to see Ruby stroll in like she was the one who actually owned the place.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s eating you, Quasimodo?”

“He had a hunchback.”

“And a limp,” she corrected.

“Still a flawed analogy.”

“Have you read the fucking book?” she asked skeptically. When he didn’t reply, she said, “Thought so, asshole.”

He rolled his eyes as he groaned, “What do you want?”

She moved closer to him and lowered her voice a bit. “I’m getting a promotion.”

“Hail Satan,” he said sarcastically. “Does that mean your shadow won’t be gracing my door anymore?”

“Hardly.” She sat down on the pew next to him. “I’m still on babysitter duty. They’re just letting me work in one of the labs.”

He didn’t know what to say at first. Her having access to spell components potentially opened up opportunities to them. It was still too early to formulate an escape plan, but once she was in the lab she could at least see what they had to work with. In a perfect world, he’d be allowed to visit her lab, so that he could help her—or simply make sure that she didn’t flee the plane without him. And yet, he was fairly sure that he was too much of a flight risk to be trusted with spell components. When he’d first arrived in Hell, Dean had told him that all things magical had been moved beyond his reach. Earning the right to go to an arcane lab would probably take some doing.

“Good for you. Can I go insult you at your work too?” He wanted to know how far fetched it was to think he might visit her.

“First of all, moping in the dark isn’t working. If you want some credit, then start praying or sacrificing goats or having visions.” She wasn’t even attempting couching that warning in innocuous teasing. “Second, the labs are still off limits to you. Just because you’re chained to me like an iron weight, doesn’t mean that you get to ride my coattails.”

He started rifling through the pages of the book to make a bit of cover noise on the off chance that the temple was bugged, then whispered, “What if I started having visions?”

“You need to be more of a team player, like back in Pittsburgh or Little Rock,” she replied pointedly at her normal volume.

The job they worked in Pittsburgh was typical in every way with the only notable thing being that it was earlier in him successfully using his powers. Little Rock had been before he’d really gotten the hang of it and they’d had to bluff their way out of a bad situation. It was a question. Ruby was asking whether his visions actually worked or if he was considered bluffing.

As tempting as it was to keep her in the dark, telling her that he was about to lie through his teeth to Abaddon and Dean sounded like a recipe for disaster. Like she’d said, her fate was bound to him. If she thought that he was about to do something that reckless, she might try to stop him. It was better to confide in her and hope that she didn’t figure out some way of turning that to her advantage.

“Like Pittsburgh is doable.”

She stared at him, eyes going slightly wide with a combination of surprise and exasperation. He smiled meekly at her. Without making a sound, her mouth formed the unmistakable words, ‘You son of a bitch.’


	9. The Suggestion

Admittedly, he did fake one vision for a bit of showmanship. Roughly a week after his chat with Ruby, he waited until he heard a guard approaching the temple to collect him, then he feigned a splitting headache. Dean was fetched instantly, and was delighted to see him clutching his head before the altar. As far as he was concerned, it was better for everyone else to think that the visions still caused him pain. Maybe eventually he’d be forced to drop the act as his proficiency increased, but for the time being he liked being the only person who knew for certain what was going on in at least one aspect of his life.

Having finally conceded the existence of his visions, Sam’s routine changed in a few notable ways. First was that he was informed that as long as he was a contributing member of society, his time would be too precious to be wasted on the likes of Tall, Short, Twitch, or any other trivial torture. Second was that he was given an even wider range of Hell to roam in, without dedicated supervision. He still couldn’t go to the arcane labs, the Crossroads, the throne room, the archives, or the Lower Dungeons, but nearly everywhere else, he could at least poke his head in without immediately being tackled by the guards, as long as he pretended to have a purpose. 

The last major change was that his relationship with Ruby had transformed from less of sitter and charge to more of colleagues. She still saw him regularly as part of his forced socialization routine, but she spent a significant amount of her time in the labs while he was supposed to be getting in touch with his inner demon cleric. The result was that occasionally she’d complain about work to him, which could be equally interesting and annoying. She still grated on him like asphalt taken at 90mph—she had ruined his life approximately a decade earlier and never expressed a hint of remorse—but he could at least tolerate her most of the time, especially when she brought him intel.

He had just finished with the latest round of the murder game and was heading back to his room to wash his hands, when he noticed Ruby hurrying to catch up to him. Under different circumstances he wouldn’t have cared about her presence one way or the other, but the game had a way of agitating him.

“Leave me alone,” he told her.

“Someone’s grumpy.”

“I just got done killing a woman. Give me a break.”

She silently walked beside him for a moment before commenting, “I mean, it’s not like you hadn’t killed anyone before getting down here.”

“Seriously, just fuck off.”

“Listen, I’ve got two jobs around here. Research arcana that they tell me to research and babysitting your ass—“

“Go research something, court-fucking-wizard.” 

He wasn’t actually sure how she ranked among Hell’s spellcasting community, though he was confident that she was one of the most competent people they had. Listening to her complain about her peers for more than five minutes was enough to tell that. It was hard for him to imagine her actually being put in charge of anything while she was still wearing the linen clothes of some underclass filth, but he had no doubt she was hard at work trying to earn her leather and autonomy. Personally, if there was a chance at all that her objectives could be aligned with Abaddon’s, then Sam thought it was a crime against Hell to not have Ruby’s cutthroat mind in on the strategy discussion. He’d put his money on her ending up being tapped as an advisor before too long. She was too capable in a time when it seemed that Hell needed all the help it could get.

“I finished my last assignment,” she explained. “Apparently, I haven’t  _ earned _ the right to run my lab on my own initiative.”

That sounded familiar. He still hadn’t been given permission to remove the Lucifer imagery from the temple. The place was supposed to be his to dabble in, but it was hard to get comfortable while a statue of his abuser was watching over him. There was some combination of tradition or fear of disrupting some sort of unholy feng shui that had kept it in the temple, despite the fact that the archangel had somewhat fallen from the public’s graces since his unsuccessful attempt to cause Armageddon. The whole thing was frustrating in more ways than he cared to waste mental energy counting.

His ears perked up at the intentional or accidental invitation to find out what she’d been working on. “What was your last assignment?”

“Now he gives a shit about my day.” She rolled her eyes, but relented. “They wanted me to work on a way of detecting inbound angels.”

He stopped walking, looked around to make sure nobody was around, grabbed her arm, then lowered his voice. “Do they think Heaven is gonna hit us—hit Hell?”

“There isn’t a heavenly threat anymore. It’s just a bunch of weak angels too scared to touch Hell with a ten-mile pole, ” she reminded him, then added at a lower volume, “Our defensive warding is getting revamped, but this project is something different. I was told to exclude the effects of the Abyss in my calculations. Supposedly, they’re gonna take me up to run a few experiments with it.”

His heart started pounding faster than when he’d killed the woman not-fifteen minutes earlier. “You’re going to Earth?”

“Yeah.”

“Get them to take me with you.” If they weren’t standing in the hallway, he would’ve dropped to his knees and begged.

“Fat fucking chance,” she huffed. “You don’t have that kind of credibility down here. Of course it’s gonna look like you’re trying to escape.”

“If it comes from you—you’re asking for me to help you,” he suggested desperately.

“No,” she said a bit louder and more firmly.

“Come on.”

“I’m not risking my ass to do you another favor—especially one that’s gonna instantly get shot down.”

“You get along better with them—“

“I’m not gonna get flayed because of you—“

“Just ask.”

“No—”

“Ask what?”

They both turned to see Dean standing at an intersection about thirty feet away. Sam hesitated and just prayed that neither he nor Ruby had turned bright red or sickly green. Thank God he was too in shock to glance at her to check. His brain was scrambling to find some answer that wasn’t suspicious. Ruby had been right that the suggestion would sound like an escape attempt coming from him, so outright lying seemed like the right play. Unfortunately, his mind hadn’t got any further than that.

“Sam wants to try applying a layer of amplification magic on his temple,” Ruby answered, taking things out of his hands. “But I told him that I don’t have access to my lab and I didn’t want to piss you two off by asking for discretionary use.”

It took a fair amount of willpower to not throw her a what-the-fuck face at her attempt to spin the mess into her personal benefit, but at that point he didn’t know how to take an annoyed shot at her without screwing himself. 

He quickly improvised, “I’m worried that I’m running up on a limit for what I can do. I thought maybe Ruby could find a way to help—without blood,” he hastily added, undoubtedly earning a grimace from Ruby. “She came up with the amplification idea.”

He didn’t have to look at her. He could feel her staring at him, covertly pissed at him shifting some of the responsibility onto her. Well, she’d come up with the story first. As far as he was concerned, its ambition and idiocy should splash on her more than him.

Dean considered them for a few seconds, then gave a little nod and looked to Ruby. “Fine, whatever. You can use your lab, but expect unannounced inspections, so don’t try anything stupid.” He tilted his head towards Sam. “And fix his fucking temple.” Without saying another word, the knight continued on his way through the intersection to whatever pain he was late to inflict.

When the coast was clear, Ruby pointed at Sam and raised a warning eyebrow. She was seething for some reason.

He hissed, “Why are you pissed? You’re the one who got what you wanted.”

“I don’t know shit about how the stupid temple works. I made up the amplification spell thing,” she quietly replied. “Now I have to invent a fucking arcane enchantment that works on what—divine magic.”

He smiled at the idea of her having go to such magnificent extremes to cover her ass. “You used to be a better liar.”

“You sure you weren’t just comically gullible?” she growled at him.

Sam pursed his lips for a moment before he replied. “Have fun preparing the spell for my temple. I’ll see you there when you’re ready—what do you think, like an hour or two?” 

As he started walking away, she yelled after him, “Bite me, human.”

He nearly bared his teeth at her, but stopped himself. The last thing he needed was for someone to observe it and decide that there was a chance he’d try to drink her blood. They might confine him away from demons—that wouldn’t actually be terrible… except that he’d be completely alone. He didn’t mind losing all interactions with the 99.99% of demons that tortured him, and maybe he didn’t like her, but at least she was someone he could trade barbs with; they could actually talk. Instead he flipped her off over his shoulder as he limped away.

* * *

Dean slowly walked around Ruby’s lab, examining the random artifacts on the shelves and on her workbench. He didn’t know how to identify anything of value or dangerous potential, but the oddities were somewhat captivating in their mystery—a hundred tiny pieces of a puzzle to be assembled to the boon of Hell. When he was alive he secretly hadn’t liked magic. It was unnatural, cheating, a tool of the underhanded. Now, he appreciated it like a flavorless poison.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening. Ruby stood at the threshold. She was visibly surprised and frightened to see him there waiting for her.

“Come in,” he told her. “And shut the door behind you.”

She cautiously entered, closing the door with some reluctance. Her back stayed to the wall and she subtly side-stepped to keep him on the opposite side of the room from her. It’d been almost two weeks since he’d hurt her last, but he was glad to see that his violence had instilled a lingering respect.

He wasn’t there to terrorize her, not if left unprovoked. The truth was that, as much as the thought of her caused a bitter taste in his mouth, he had to admit that things had improved since she’d joined the team. It would’ve been nicer if Sam had initially opened up to him, but rationally it made sense that he’d feel a bit more comfort with someone he didn’t actively fear. At least he’d also started opening up more generally. Things were looking up, and he just had a bit of constructive criticism to offer her.

“I’ve heard that you sometimes call Sam a human as an insult.” Dean emphasized his point with a little extra edge to his voice. “Don’t call him human.”

She stared at him for a moment trying to process some aspect of the order before replying, “Okay, but do I get to know why? I mean, he isn’t a real demon.”

“Maybe he’s part human,” he admitted. “But that’s not the part of him we’re trying to nurture.”

Dean sat down on the stool next to her workbench and picked up a fist-sized geode. He turned it over in his hands, studying the fracture in its drab stone exterior where the beautiful crystal core peeked through. “He’ll never be like us,” he continued. “Not while he’s alive. If we can get him down the right path, then maybe after he dies he’ll get to be a full demon, but for now…. For now, he’s some hybrid freak. He needs to know where he stands and how he can improve. I don’t want him hiding behind some bullshit idea of humanity, handicapping himself more than he is. For any other demon, go ahead and call them a human for kicks, but do it again with him and I’ll rip your tongue out.”

“Understood.” Ruby stared at him for a few seconds before saying, “You care about him, don’t you?”

“He’s my brother. If I can make him accept a place in our new world, I’ll be fucking thrilled.” He met her eyes with a seriousness that made her recoil a few inches. “But he isn’t my weakness anymore. The second he becomes more trouble than he’s worth I’ll let him die; I’ll kill him myself, and you’ll be on such thin ice that my hot breath, breathing down your neck, will be your fucking end.”

She nodded in recognition of his threat. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a thoroughly disturbing man?”

“So many times.” After a thoughtful pause, Dean shook his head and muttered, “I used to be such a little cunt.”

“Little?” Ruby replied. When the corner of his lip curled up slightly, she threw caution into the wind. “Used to be?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re smart; I’ll give you that. Just don’t let your smart mouth get you in trouble.” He gestured around the room void of other occupants. “If you talk to me like that in front of a subordinate, I’ll take those words out of your hide with a scalpel. And if you talk about Abaddon like that ever, I’ll use my fucking teeth. Now, say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir.”

He tossed the geode to her and she only barely managed to catch it. “Alright. Back to saving the realm.”

* * *

For the first time in all his years in Hell, Sam got to see the throne room functioning in its normal capacity. He’d only previously been brought there to meet privately with Abaddon, when she’d initially extended an olive branch to him. Now the scene was more public facing, if not formal. When he arrived he finally saw Abaddon in the full glory of her current power. 

She sat on her throne with visible familiarity. Her body leaned to the side, casually resting on an armrest, unconcerned—not that she had any reason to worry. Not only was she the Queen of Hell, that political power was built upon a mountain of bodies he couldn’t even imagine. She’d been a knight of Hell for millennia, one so ruthless that she’d driven Cain from the board. Then after being killed, her own murderer had brought her back out of some fucked up sort of respect. She deserved to be cocky; she’d definitely earned it.

Dean stood faithfully beside her. It was a testament to her that such a dangerous creature in his own right would willfully decide to serve her. That confidence between them had truly made the whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Before her were half a dozen demons in leather clothes, standing at polite attention. One had white eyes, marking him as a greater demon. Another had red eyes and wore the unmistakable modern business suit of a Crossroads demon. It was undoubtedly a gathering of senior staff or influential demons, either a bit of business or posturing. He supposed those were often one and the same.

Aside from the Crossroads demon and himself, the only other person not dressed in leather was Ruby. She was off to one side of the audience, apparently trying to fade into the background for the moment.  Thanks to their intimate history, he could read the discomfort in her posture, subtle as it may have been. She wasn’t feeling very confident, though she probably had more experience with this sort of thing than him.

The group of high-ranking demons turned to look back at the sound of his entrance. Suddenly being the center of attention and having no idea what he was doing there, his stomach knotted painfully.  He was supposed to be some unique holy figure, who could see the future. If anyone ordered him to tell fortunes, he’d probably have a goddamn anxiety attack.

“Continue, Cecily,” Abaddon instructed the Crossroads demon, who resumed some sort of report.

Everyone gave their attention back to the red-eyed demon, though the Queen’s eyes remained fixed on Sam. She picked up her goblet of red wine and sipped it as she reached out with her other hand and pet Dean’s arm. After making the little display of her continual dominance, she turned her eyes to Cecily, fully listening to a report on the efforts to make up for the downtick in Crossroads deals. Unsure of what else to do, Sam slowly skirted the room to go stand a couple meters from Ruby, then watched the show.

At first he didn’t understand why he was being allowed to listen in on such sensitive information, but after observing the interactions of the demons he didn’t know, he realized that that group was conspicuously missing both experts on the arcane and the divine. It was a trial run at whether he and Ruby could dabble in policy meetings. The two of them were clearly not yet welcomed into the big leagues, but it seemed as though they were at least being considered. 

That being said, he didn’t exactly have competition for his position. As far as he knew, there wasn’t anyone else with a claim to the Dark Temple that held a candle to his own. For all he knew, he was still a decade away getting that sort of position—though he’d certainly prefer to get the hell out of Hell before then.

He listened greedily to everything that was being discussed, desperately trying to find something that might help his escape. There were at least fifteen different operations being undertaken on Earth, primarily doing reconnaissance for some indeterminate course of action. Several teams had been tasked with investigating the presence of angels on Earth, though there had only been a few encounters, aside from the angelic hit teams that had been sent after Dean. Suspicions were that Heaven had heard about Abaddon’s rise to power, inspiring wholly-justified fear at a second knight of Hell suddenly appearing on the scene.

After what seemed like several hours of reports and debating the merits of various courses of action, Abaddon sent off several of the high-ranking demons, including Cecily of the Crossroads, on administrative tasks. When the chamber had partially cleared, she asked, “What’s the latest on Crowley?”

Sam tried not to look surprised at the realization that they hadn’t yet captured the former King of Hell. He’d just assumed that the old regime had been fully extinguished. Instead, that crafty son of a bitch had been successfully evading the forces of all Hell. He made a mental note that if he ever figured out what he was doing, he’d have to use some variant if he— 

Sam’s brain sputtered a bit, recalling the last phone call he’d had with Castiel.  Castiel had mistakenly stumbled upon Crowley after investigating a grouping of unusual omens. It had appeared that, in an attempt to avoid detection by Abaddon’s forces, Crowley had used a new form of defensive warding. The only reason that Castiel had noticed it was because the omens registered on an angelic frequency. Castiel had even suggested that Crowley’s people were unaware that they could be found out that way; they still might be using that flawed system. The entire military might of Hell was looking for the guy, meanwhile Sam had a good idea how to find him.

“Sam,” Abaddon said, abruptly interrupting the discussion and causing everyone to stare at him. “Do you have any insights into this?”

For a moment, he was frozen in absolute terror at the thought that somehow she knew that he was withholding intel. This was the sort of public humiliation that they might put him through as a bonus to merely springing the trap—but no one had any way of knowing about the secret method for locating Crowley, except for Castiel or, less likely, Jody. They’d had Jody for years; it seemed incredibly unlikely that they’d pry any new intel from her so late in the process. And if Castiel was captured, that would be the kind of news that would spread like wildfire. Surely Dean would excitedly use their angelic friend as a prop to further break Sam, before going to all the trouble of scouring Castiel so thoroughly that he’d find information that Dean didn’t even know Castiel had. The question was likely fishing.

“Insights?” he asked in as unassuming a voice as possible.

In a subtly cutting tone, Abaddon told him, “I expect that before too much longer your visions will tell us something of actual value.”

He heard the threat loud and clear;  she was demanding that he start being a team player. “I can’t control what I see,” he replied, then realized that his impolite tone in front of so many people might earn him some punishment, so he quickly added, “But I’ll try harder—ma’am.”

She studied him for a moment before saying, “I know you will.”

Sam covertly let out a sigh of relief as the Queen turned her attention to the next point on the agenda. He pretended to fix a few stray hairs in order to touch his forehead, checking whether he was sweating. His skin was definitely damp, though he wasn’t sure if it was visible from a distance. He tried to focus on the policy debate, but his mind was racing over what to do in terms of both his knowledge about Crowley and also Abaddon’s not-so-veiled ultimatum that he start contributing.

He had been lost in worried thoughts for several minutes, when he looked back at the front of the room and noticed that his brother was watching him intently. Sam felt like he must’ve lost some color. He tried to break eye contact by looking somewhere else, but when he immediately glanced to Ruby he turned away, not wanting to draw her attention. Without a doubt he was being awkward and suspicious. Sure enough, Dean bent down and whispered something in Abaddon’s ear. Her fingers lightly traced his jaw as she listened.

She ordered, “Everyone leave, except for Ruby and Sam.”

While everyone else was exiting the room, Ruby muttered under her breath, “What did you do now?”

He could only manage a quick hiss at her before there was too much focus on them for him to risk any further communication.

“Sammy, you seem stressed,” Dean told him, then turned to Ruby. “He seems awfully stressed.”

Sam’s first impulse was to burst into laughter, but some self-preservation thankfully kicked in preventing such a potentially-insulting move. He wasn’t sure whether it was wise to admit weakness. The last thing he needed was for anyone to theorize that his stress was related to the discussion of Crowley or maybe his inability to perform as needed.

“I think we’ll all agree that some stress isn’t surprising,” he replied dryly.

“What’re you doing to relax?” asked Dean.

Sam bit his tongue to stop himself from pointing out the hypocrisy of his tormentor criticizing his lack of self-care. Instead he settled on the one thing that might remotely qualify. “Reading.”

“Studying? That’s it?” The elder Winchester furrowed his brow, then looked between him and Ruby. ”Haven’t you two been fucking?”  
Sam and Ruby both side-stepped to be farther apart. 

“No,” they both replied in unison, to their mutual annoyance, earning a small chuckle from Abaddon.

Dean gave a little shrug, then told them, “You might want to try it.”   


“If you’re so concerned about his sex life“ —Ruby gestured at Sam while talking to his brother.— “you’re welcome to do something about it yourself.”   


Sam hissed, “Stop helping.”   


Dean laughed at the suggestion, then told Ruby, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”   


Sam interjected, “If you’re trying to make me less stressed, that’s not gonna help.”

Dean looked at Ruby pointedly, then gestured for her to have at Sam.   


Ruby’s lip curled in a suppressed snarl. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”   


Abaddon rapped her nails on the armrest of the throne. “He outranks you.”   


Ruby looked between the two superiors. Sam could tell from the way she was pressing her index and middle fingers against her thigh that she was legitimately angry. It was a subtle tell, but one he’d learned while working with her over the years. She asked the couple, “Are you actually ordering us to fuck?”   


Dean and Abaddon glanced at each other. Sam held his breath, waiting for the pair to once again decide another aspect of his life.   


“A suggestion,” Abaddon clarified.

* * *

As they left the throne room, Ruby walked passed Sam and muttered, “We need to talk.”

He didn’t even have to tell her that it wasn’t a good time or place for candid discussions. She hurried past him, walking with the speed and energy of a woman enraged. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she’d find him later, after having stewed on the situation for a while. Sure enough, an hour or so after getting back to his room, she was knocking at his door.

She was holding two crystal goblets and a decanter of wine. When he raised an eyebrow at the unprecedented treat, she explained, “I don’t know about you, but I need a fucking drink.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I stole it,” she replied as she poured herself a liberally filled glass. 

“You aren’t gonna get in trouble?”

“It’s Hell. They should give me a fucking medal for ingenuity.”

Hopefully, the price of the crime would only rest on her. He shrugged, then poured himself a drink and sat down at his desk as she began pacing in his small room. As much as he was offended by the sudden interest in his sex life, it didn’t seem like there was an imminent threat, and honestly he was too exhausted for anger. Rage was a feeling for those with energy to burn. At that point in his life, he was more of a quiet loathing man.

“That son of a—“ She cut herself off before shouting insults aimed at Dean, growled slightly, then downed half her glass.

She wasn’t naive. There was no doubt that she knew personal autonomy was scarce in Hell. If Abaddon or Dean so chose, either she or Sam could be subjected to a whole new set of assault and humiliation. She’d probably just expected to be treated with a bit more respect while not being actively harassed.

“Welcome to the club,” Sam told her as he took a gulp.

The wine made him shudder and burned going down. He stared at the goblet for a moment. It was the first thing he’d had in Hell that wasn’t those god awful nutritional drinks. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had alcohol, and this was the wine of demons, likely carrying a high ABV. Knowing his luck, the single glass would immobilize him. He swirled the garnet liquid. There were worse things. At least if he passed out or blacked out—  
“Want to have sex?” Ruby asked, abruptly shaking him from his thoughts.  
He nearly choked on a second sip. “What?! God, no.”  
She rolled her eyes at him. “Hey. You’re the one who they want to have sex. They don’t care about me. If you want to risk them taking some initiative, then by all means.”  
Sam rubbed his face. “I’m supposed to be a cleric. Can’t I take a vow of celibacy or something?”

“Pretty sure that’s not a thing down here.” She tilted her head from side to side. “Actually, a decent number of the hardcore sadists don’t have sex.”

“That seems counterintuitive.”

“Rape isn’t sex.” She looked at him skeptically. “Now which of us is the fucked up one?”

He picked up the half-full crystal wine glass, then casually threw it at the wall a few feet from her, shattering it. She didn’t flinch; he wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or impressed by her lack of reaction. The place really was getting to him.

“I’m guessing you’re upset,” she commented.

“With great insights like that, maybe you should be the resident psychic,” he snapped back at her.

Ruby’s lip curled into a sly smile. He knew that look. She’d found the quip attractive. “You ever have hate-sex?”

“Isn’t that all we ever had?” he muttered.

“Ouch.” She pouted a bit. “It doesn’t count as hate-sex if it’s self-loathing.”

He replied, “Two birds, one stone.”

In a less snarky tone she said, “Sam, we both know you didn’t hate me.” She gave a little halfhearted shrug before adding, “Maybe you hate me now—I mean, obviously, but let’s just drop the lies that we can both see right through.”

He glared at her for a while, but he couldn’t really argue with her. She cautiously approached him, then placed a hand on his shoulder. When he didn’t shove it away, she climbed up onto his chair, legs spread, straddling his lap. The skirt of her dress was up. He was painfully aware that the only thing between them was his thin linen pants. He turned his head to avoid looking at her. She was so close that he was briefly caught up in the nostalgia of her scent.

Ruby nibbled his ear a bit while whispering, “Are we gonna fake it or do you want to tempt some discipline? I’ll back your play as long as you don’t break my fucking tailbone throwing me onto the floor, got it?”

He closed his eyes, disguising a subtle nod as a grimace of sexual frustration—that wasn’t hard to fake. The slight bulge in his pants would soon be visible to anyone with a keen eye who might be spying on them. He gripped her upper arms, then slowly but sternly pushed her back so that they were face-to-face. For a moment her eyes drifted down to look at his lips with almost anticipation. When her eyes returned to meet his, he took a moment to look at her, hopefully covertly conveying his appreciation that she wasn’t going to make things more difficult than they already were. He forced her off of him, taking care to make sure that he didn’t throw her to the ground ass-first.

“Maybe I didn’t hate you then, but that was then,” he told her.


	10. The Reasonable Choice

Upon consideration, Sam was a bit confused by why his brother wasn’t forcing him to rape prisoners. He was being forced to watch that sort of violence in videos and he was made to murder prisoners. It seemed odd that there wasn’t an overlap between those lessons. Part of him worried about planting any unsavory ideas in Dean’s head, but the question kept eating at him. Anyway, his brother wasn’t dumb. Surely the thought had occurred to him and been dismissed for whatever reason. Which begged the question of why he was being spared that particular indignity. On his walk with Dean to his next lesson, he decided to tempt fate and find out.

“Why aren’t you making me rape prisoners?”

“I don’t want you having sex with humans,” Dean replied, as if that was obvious. When he saw Sam’s perplexed expression, he explained, “I know you’re a bastard, but you’re still more or less an aide to the queen. The last thing anyone needs is you fucking cattle.”

Sam chewed the inside of his lip at being called a bastard. Rationally, he knew it was just slang for the fact that he was between categories. Hybrid probably wouldn’t have been any better. People might’ve mistaken him for an antichrist and that would’ve been a whole new headache. He tried to shrug off the bastard insult. It was practically his middle name at that point.

He also noted with some interest that Dean didn’t have as nuanced a concept of sex-versus-rape as Ruby. That was disheartening and an oddly amusing juxtaposition between fiends.

“Do you want sex?” Dean asked warily. “There are plenty of demons. We could make something happen.”

“No, please,” Sam immediately replied. The last thing he needed was to have a demonic prostitute sent to his room with instructions to not take no for an answer. “I don’t want sex.”

Dean watched him skeptically as they walked. “Seriously, why aren’t you fucking Ruby? You used to. It’s even the same body.”

Having his toenails ripped out felt like a more appealing prospect than talking to his brother about his relationship with Ruby. They’d avoided those types of touchy-feely topics back on Earth. Hell seemed like an even less appropriate venue. Anyway, there wasn’t anything touchy-feely about Ruby. She was about as comforting and supportive as a tapeworm; her primary merits were that it wasn’t usually obvious or painful when she drained sustenance from you.

“Because I don’t like her,” Sam answered flatly.

“Yeah, you do.”

“I hate her the least of everyone here. There’s a difference.”

The elder Winchester grinned at him. “You’re adorable.”

“Don’t call me adorable.”

Dean hooked his arm around Sam’s neck and leaned in to stare up playfully at his cold eyes. The contact was unwelcome, but it didn’t inspire the terror it would’ve a year earlier. He was slowly gaining the ability to sense when an erratic jab was coming and he was starting to grow a thicker skin. Also, he liked to think that he’d graduated beyond what in hindsight appeared to be a certain amount of hazing—though having his brother tousle his hair undercut the feeling a bit. 

“If you want my fear or respect you’re gonna have to earn it,” Dean told him matter-of-factly. “Until then you’re adorable.” They stopped walking in front of the cell door, and he took his usual perch before checking his watch. “Go ahead.”

Sam picked a number between one and four before he walked into the cell. He barely had to do a six-minute-thirty-second count anymore. There was a tactile element to it that freed his mind up to think about more pleasant or pressing issues—things that he could actually do something about. He sat there, mulling over the conversation about Ruby until he was done. After sparing a couple seconds to look regretfully at the face of the man he’d just killed, he got up and went back out into the hall.

“What’s with you liking Ruby all of a sudden?” Sam asked Dean as he absentmindedly wiped his palms on his linen pants. “You find out you have a soft spot for villainous women?”

Dean gave him a look of warning before correcting, “Not soft.” When Sam raised his hands in apology and forfeit, Dean continued. “She’s still a bitch, but that’s like everyone in Hell except you.” He started walking while chatting, implicitly ordering Sam to join him. “But she’s effective, and I think it’s funny when she annoys you.”

Sam didn’t even bother trying to hide his scowl. Dean patted him on the back so hard that his bad knee almost buckled, but he caught himself. The knight either didn’t notice or didn’t care and strolled along with a whimsical expression on his face.

“Speaking of exes,” his brother offered as a completely unappealing and unexpected segue. “Did Cas ever tell you that he’s in love with me?”

Sam froze for a moment from shock, falling a step behind. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard Dean mention Castiel since becoming a demon. The angel had only fleetingly cropped up in his own mind, as some unreachable source of help and a lost friend. It hadn’t occurred to him that there might’ve been more to Castiel and Dean’s relationship, and it suddenly made him regret not paying closer attention to how the angel had taken Dean’s transformation.

“No,” Sam replied.

“We made out a few times—kept getting interrupted. I never did get to give that angel his wings.” Dean chuckled. “He misses me, doesn’t he?”

“He misses what you used to be.”

The elder Winchester shook his head. “Such a pathetic sap.”

“We all were,” Sam commented, sadly. 

“Preach, brother.”

* * *

Sam was sitting on one of the pews in the Dark Temple, staring at a ten-foot-wide stretch of wall. A book on Lucifer’s Rebellion and the creation of Hell was open on his lap. He’d read the four epic poems that made up the text, but the truth was that it had come across as old news. The narratives tickled the back of his brain as some sort of long forgotten bedtime story. He hadn’t acquired the stories through sunday school or his dad’s hunterly instruction. 

If he had to guess, that faint, sincere recollection was because Lucifer had experienced it firsthand. He couldn’t recall specific memories, so he wasn’t about to call it residual knowledge, but either thanks to his possession or gifted powers from Azazel, there was an undeniable connection. It used to scare him and filled him with shame. Now, it was mostly annoying. It made people interested in him for the wrong reasons and left him as the sole caretaker for an unholy church.

His gut reaction was to sabotage the temple or do whatever he could to act out against anything dedicated to Lucifer. Ideally, he’d take a sledgehammer to the massive statue of the beast. But destroying a religious artifact as old as Hell itself would almost certainly get him in serious trouble. Not to mention, nobody in their right mind would give him a weapon, even a bludgeoning one.

Yet, as time had passed, and he’d considered the temple and texts a bit more, he began reframing the situation. He was in a place of immeasurable history and cultural significance. Hell had existed longer than any human civilization and he had been given the keys to what was essentially one of its museums. He had a library that chronicled the previous clerics in great detail, the rise and fall of various regimes, and Hell’s ongoing relationship with the divine. There was a wealth of information for him to study, more than he’d initially realized, because it didn’t just exist in the books. There were stories in the temple itself.

He briefly skimmed the poem containing an account of the greater demon Saldun’s betrayal, then looked up at the wall. Looking beyond the shadows of the oppressively dim chamber, he noticed that every inch of the walls and ceiling were covered in elaborate relief carvings depicting scenes. He wasn’t sure if they numbered in the hundreds or thousands. Each image bled into the next, conveying treachery and violence—but all true and meaningful. It was the “Where’s Waldo?” of the history of sin and damnation. And he had a sneaking suspicion that nobody else in existence actually spent enough time there to know it might be worth a damn.

He was pretty sure that he’d found the carving of Saldun making a deal with the leader of a rival in order to assassinate five heirs to the throne of Hell. The thumb-sized figure looked close to the physical description in the poem and he was depicted standing on a pile of five severed heads. Finding Saldun’s carving had been his personal project for the last few days, and he smiled at the discovery. That story had been on his mind lately.

Before too long, he would have to decide if he was ready to risk his own betrayal. He had information on how to potentially find Crowley. The former King of the Crossroads had some followers with him on Earth. Dean had repeatedly complained that many of Hell’s ‘top nerds’ had fled, resulting in substandard staffing for the first few years and lingering issues. There was a chance that he could be made into an ally, one that might be able to help Sam escape, if he could help Crowley overthrow Abaddon.

Unfortunately, the scheme was premised on finding some way of communicating with Crowley, which, at the moment, seemed damn near impossible. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to get any sort of communication across the planes to Earth, let alone to a specific person, who was in hiding. One way of potentially bypassing part of the headache was contacting Castiel and giving him the harder task of locating him. As an angel, Castiel would have an easier time tracking down the auras that had long ago been mistaken for Dean. But once again, that required covert interplanar contact.

He glanced over his shoulder at the statue of the beast. As much as everyone liked to overlook it, Lucifer was an angel. Just because Hell was an unholy realm, didn’t mean that it was completely severed from the divine. He’d been given the temple based on an expectation that he could do something meaningful with his connection to some bigger picture. The accounts of long-dead clerics portrayed them doing many impressive and unprecedented feats. Azazel actually breached the Cage to speak with an archangel. Maybe someday he could get a message to Castiel, with enough practice.

Sam placed the book down on the pew, stood up, and approached the wall. He gently laid his fingertips on the rough carving of the cutthroat demon, then shut his eyes. He focused for a while trying to will a vision into existence. Whether it was his imagination or not, he thought he saw a flickering light blooming and disappearing in the fog of his mind. There might’ve been whispering or far off talking, but it was in Abyssal and he barely understood any of the language of Hell. When he was done, he opened his eyes and lifted his hand off the carving to look at it again. It felt like he was getting closer.

“What are you looking at?”

He turned around to see Ruby standing in the doorway. Evidently, he hadn’t heard her footsteps while having the vision. An odd thought occurred to him. He gestured at the wall, “What do you see here?”

She squinted, then blinked her eyes black and squinted again. “Not much. You really need to install some fluorescent lights in here,” she said as she approached him. When she was standing beside him, she was still squinting a bit as she looked at the wall. “There’s stuff on the wall. Grooves and bumps.” She walked over to a standing candelabra, yanked free one of the black wax candles, then returned and held it up to the wall. “Is that a fucking mural?”

“Yeah,” he told her, then tapped the carving of Saldun and whispered, “And this is a story about changing the regime of Hell.”

Ruby stood perfectly still for a moment before saying, “I don’t think I’ve heard that one. Why don’t you tell it to me.”

He hesitated, unsure whether to tell her the actual story or if he would take what sounded like an invitation to discuss conspiracy. His plan to try honing his powers sufficiently to contact Castiel was certainly safe—it would probably be undetectable by anyone else—but it also was an entirely ethereal concept. He had nothing but intuition to guide him through a process that could take years or decades to successfully execute. 

Meanwhile, Ruby had actually worked on at least one defensive spell pertaining to angels. She had some sort of data and had gone to Earth to experiment with the spell in question. With a similar opportunity, she could probably send a covert message to Castiel or maybe even to Crowley directly if she could discern how the angelic detection worked.

“There once was a disrespected demon, who didn’t like the ruling powers. He contacted an enemy of the throne and made an alliance—“

“Is this enemy someone I’ve heard of?”

“I’m sure,” he replied. “Forget the name, but a big mouth and the ass-covering sort.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I know just the type.” Ruby leaned in, making a little show of looking at the carving. “This thing is such a busy mess. How are we even supposed to know where the big-mouth enemy is?”

“Turns out he sticks out if you just know what to look for. I accidentally spotted him a while back. If you give me a hand, I might be able to find him again.” 

She  froze for a moment, processing what he was asking of her, then looked up at him, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. “You sure that’s a good use of our time? We’ve both got people breathing down our necks.”

His heart sank a bit. She didn’t want to do it, and obviously he couldn’t force her to help him. He just hoped that she didn’t turn him in.

“Maybe another time?” he asked hopefully.

After a long pause, she replied, “Maybe. You know how much I like underdog stories.”

* * *

“You know what really pisses me off about humans,” Dean said as he and Sam walked down the hall to another lesson.

Sam wanted to say that he could guess. Complaining about humans was easily one of his brother’s favorite idle activities. The knight had quite a list of perceived offenses, and some admittedly had their merits. But Sam didn’t risk insulting him by suggesting that whatever he was about to say was a rehash of old rants.

“They blame us for the dumbest things,” he continued. “Rock and Roll, Harry Potter, cheating on your wife—Fuck, even murder. Like every time some human makes a dumb or unpopular decision, there’s some demon whispering in their ear.” He huffed. “As if we have nothing better to do. Self-centered fucks.”

“I think a lot of people think of it as a more abstract concept of evil or sin,” Sam suggested. “Some less tangible force compelling them to do stuff they know is wrong.”

“Well, those ones don’t even believe in us. I don’t know which one is worse.” Dean was so caught up in his complaining that he unconsciously sped back up to his normal pace, leaving his limping brother several steps behind him. He caught himself, then waited a beat for him to catch up. “You know, there was a time when demons walked the Earth without all that tiptoeing secrecy. They were feared and respected. Now, we’re just a scapegoat and a threat to tell kids not to jerk off. Then the dead humans show up here with this dumb fucking look on their face. Yeah, assholes, we’re real and your stupid, misinformed life choices mean we have to take responsibility for you for eternity.”

“Yeah. The system is pretty messed up,” Sam agreed. He didn’t really know what else to say. He’d heard the spiel repeatedly over the years, and while earlier he’d tried to argue about the innocence of the individual humans, lately he’d come to realize that it was a pointless position. Dean didn’t care about subjective innocence; the guy barely cared about innocence at all. And even if Sam wasn’t as personally offended as his brother, the situation did seem deeply flawed. He wasn’t sure what there was to be done to improve things. Regardless, it was above his pay grade.

“They’re so weak—and not just physically.” Dean gestured at him. “It’s a miracle you aren’t more fucked up than you are. I mean, your skin’s like paper and a good punch will break your face, but it’s also like you lacked clarity.” He touched Sam’s arm, then said in an almost attentive voice, “You can feel it now, right?”

He didn’t want to set himself up for revisiting the fundamentals of his reeducation, so he replied, “I’m feeling something.”

It wasn’t even a lie. There wasn’t any point in denying that Hell had done something to him. That was obvious from the way that his visions had started back up. Dean and Abaddon had undoubtedly hoped for a more profound transformation than that, but thankfully that wasn’t the case. He was still himself, maybe a little worn out from the years of pain and captivity, but he was still a good and reasonable man, doing his best.

“That’s great,” his big brother told him. “I really think you’re gonna do the right thing.”

Sam was about to ask what he’d meant, but noticed that they were stopped outside of the prison cell. He tabled the question in his mind until after the game, then picked a number between one and four before opening the door and walking inside. But there was only one person in the tiny, featureless room.

Jody was crumpled on the floor, right wrist manacled and chained to the wall. She was naked, covered in old scars and fresh bruises. Her left arm was missing, having been amputated at the shoulder long ago. Grey peppered her hair, hinting at the stress of the years. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t appear to notice him. She simply stared at the opposite wall.

He watched her for several seconds, frozen in shock. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked to see her. She’d existed as something to threaten him with, but in his effort to protect her, he’d always given in. As a result, Jody hadn’t been trotted out. And as punishment became rarer and rarer, her name had come up less and less.

Dean entered the cell and stood behind Sam. In a quiet voice, he said, “Humans can’t handle it down here for very long. They just aren’t tough enough. I had her put on… let’s call it life support, in case I needed to make her talk or be around for you. But we’re at the end of that, aren’t we?” He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “She’s weak. Worse than that, she’s a piece of your weakness. She’s part of what’s tying you to that pathetic species, your life before you embraced your true self.”

Sam heard his brother’s words, but lessons, warnings, threats—they hardly even mattered. There would be no argument or reasoned discussion, not when he lacked power. He knew how it would end: with Jody’s death. The question was whether it would be from his hands or through a fit of rage from Dean. He didn’t want her to be brutalized anymore; flayed, devoured, or slowly bludgeoned to death.

When he knelt down in front of Jody, she shifted, startling him a bit. He’d assumed that she was completely comatose, but the trance appeared to have been broken by the close proximity. Her mouth trembling as her eyes finally focused on him. He reached out, cupping her cheeks.

“Sam, it’s you,” she rasped. Tears somehow flowed down her parched skin, coating his hands.

As he stared at her face, he felt oddly numb. He couldn’t help but think about the fact that there was only one person who would die. Unlike every time before, he didn’t have three hostages being held against him. When there had been more lives on the line, he’d been scared to interact with the prisoners, for fear that he might damn the rest of them. But this was different. He could talk to her, because he had the power in that moment—as long as he was the one to kill her.

“It’s okay,” he assured her.

He quickly slid his right hand down and squeezed the sides of her neck. She gasped as her eyes widened in shock. Her hand reached out to grab at him, but the fingers only gently raked his chest as she lost consciousness. He carefully laid her down while making sure not to release the pressure. If he stopped too soon, not only would she suffer, he would be punished for showing weakness, especially over something so futile. It would soon be done, such an unpleasant chapter closed. He just needed to hold on. He needed to hold— 

Dean’s hand settled on his shoulder. “It’s been fifteen minutes, Sammy. She’s dead.”

Sam looked up to see that Dean was checking his watch, but he wasn’t sure he believed him. It hadn’t felt so long. After a brief hesitation, he released her throat. His fingers were white and cold from the death grip he’d held her with. It was possible that he’d lost track of the time, too fearful of not doing the job right. “Are you sure?”

Dean gestured for him to get up. Once Sam was standing and out of the way, he placed his boot on Jody’s head. 

Sam hardly had time to look away before he heard a few loud cracks and the slurping of jelly being pressed out of a ruptured vessel. A pool of warm blood spread along the floor towards his bare feet. He quickly sidestepped the liquid, then rushed into the hallway without taking a last look at her. His stomach was reeling, but he fought the urge to vomit. He wanted to get back to his bedroom and wash his hands. As he hurried down the hall, he could hear Dean dragging his boots along the rough stone floor, like a man trying to dislodge gum.

Back in the quiet of his room, he washed his hands in the onyx basin. It was an old habit he’d developed to help shed his guilt. He hadn’t bothered with it the last ten times or so. Often he’d been in a rush and it wasn’t really worth the time or effort to make a special trip for what was arguably an unnecessary ritual. 

But Jody was different. She’d been his friend. She’d counted on him to help her, but he’d been helpless. He didn’t have the power necessary to save her. Dean and Abaddon had been holding all the cards. The demons had had the time, raw strength, and ruthlessness to enact their plans, leaving him and Jody mere pawns, one of which had been sacrificed in a play to get the other ahead. He wished that it had gone differently, but he honestly didn’t know what could’ve been done to change their trajectory. It’d be foolish to call such a thing fated, though he was starting to see how the decks were stacked.

She had been in a hopeless situation. She’d been too weak to defend herself. It wasn’t her fault. When going toe-to-toe with a demon, humans were just naturally at a disadvantage. The only reason he was holding up any better than she had was a combination of having minor demonic qualities and the cultural armor it had provided him. If the real demons figured out that he was less like them than they thought, he might be stripped of his linen clothes and thrown back to the cattle. Maybe someday things would be different. The humans might figure out how to compete, but as it was, there was an undeniable disparity. Even the hunters, the best hope for humanity against the supernatural world, didn’t seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation.

Sam was staring at the blank wall above his washing basin when there was a knock at the door. He didn’t bother looking or asking who it was; he barely cared. The door swung up and he could see Ruby enter from the corner of his eye. She stared at him for a few seconds, then, when he didn’t react to her, she cautiously stepped forward.

In a wary voice, she asked, “What’d they do?”

His mouth wavered, trying to find any words that might contain so many confused feelings and the oppressive numbness. 

“I killed her.”

The sound of his own voice giving the admission was hollow and disappointing. Someone better than him would’ve said something more—profound, meaningful, heartfelt. A good man would’ve cried. A stronger man would’ve saved her. A smarter man would accept that it was done—

He punched the coarse stone wall in front of him. When he pulled his hand back he saw blood welling up on his knuckles, but he felt nothing. He struck the wall again, without a care for his injury, then again and again. As he pummeled the hard wall, he yelled in frustration. It barely even registered that several of the delicate bones in his hands were broken.

“Sam!” 

Ruby gripped his upper body and tried to pull him away from the wall. He grappled her for a moment before pinning her to the bloody stone.

She was panting, eyes wide in alarm. In a quiet, concerned voice she said, “It’s okay, Sam. You did the right thing.” He started crying as she gently pushed him off of her, then guided him to sit down on his bed. “You did the right thing.”

He let her gingerly turn his right hand over, testing his wrist for damage. It hurt like hell, but somehow the pain seemed far away, lost in a fog. 

“You don’t even know what I did,” he told Ruby.

“You did what you had to. That’s enough.” She leaned in and whispered, “Keep it together. You’re the only one here I don’t want to murder with a wooden spoon.”

Sam looked up at her face. Her casual mention of murder while he was clearly upset over having just killed someone was disheartening, but at least her expression was that of mild concern.

He muttered, “Like I give a fuck about what you want.”

“That’s the spirit,” she replied as she lightly touched his swelling, purple hand, causing him to grimace at the contact. “You’ve gotta get this looked at. Something’s definitely broken.”

Rationally, he knew she was right, but he didn’t want to begin imagining what headaches might ensue. The moment anyone else found out about the injury, Dean and Abaddon would be notified. Their pet project had had a lapse. They might think he was collapsing under the pressure. That wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Sam,” Ruby said, interrupting his distraught thoughts. “Please go see a doctor on your own. I don’t want to go to Dean, but if that’s the only way to save your hand, I’ll do it. Seriously, don’t make me go behind your back to that asshole.”

After a few seconds, he nodded that he’d do it. “Don’t come with me.”

She let go of his arm, then got up and headed to the door. Giving him a quick, threatening glance, she opened the door, but didn’t leave until he started to stand up by himself. It took a bit of effort for him to get up on his own, since he usually used his right hand to give himself a little push to help his bad leg. Unfortunately, both bad limbs were on the same side. That felt apt.

Sam had barely started walking down the hall to the infirmary before one of the guards spotted the injury and started questioning him. He was released to go get medical help, but not before guards were dispatched to investigate his room for a possible unreported fight and others were sent to notify Dean. Sure enough, he’d hardly had time to show his hand to Breznick, as the doctor was preparing a vapor to knock him out, when Dean walked in.

“Don’t give him that,” the knight ordered, then pointed at Sam. “I want you awake for this.”

Breznick replied, “Sir, if I don’t do something about the pain, he might move. There are an awful lot of delicate muscles and nerves in the hand. I’d be risking making the damage worse.”

“Only enough to take the edge off,” Dean allowed.

Sam was given a small bundle of herbs and smelling salts. He wasn’t sure if it was magic or a placebo, but he held it to his nose and huffed it, hoping to gain some relief. Breznick took a scalpel and carefully sliced an incision on the back of his hand. Sam had witnessed or performed countless instances of wound care and first aid, yet this was still a bit much for him.

The surgical tools didn’t have the pristine appearance of sterile equipment. Blood pooled and dribbled from the edges of the opening. At a glance, there were at least seven fractures along the thin bones behind his palm. A few broken sections had been bashed into pieces on a subsequent hit, chipping off pieces of bone. He took another unsatisfying sniff of the bundle as the doctor started picking out the splintered portions, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor. 

Dean examined the mangled hand, then checked his watch and sighed. “You’ve gotta be less melodramatic.”

Sam hid his pursed lips behind the bundle of pain killing herbs. “Am I not allowed to get angry?”

“I don’t care if you get angry, just don’t do stupid stuff like this.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “You aren’t like a real demon—“

“I’m a bastard,” Sam recited dryly.

“—Yeah. It’s not your fault you’re handicapped like that, but we can’t keep fixing your body every time you fuck up. Eventually you’re gonna really be maimed.”

“I’m already maimed.”

“You’re so fucking sensitive,” his brother snapped. “I meant in a way that matters. You aren’t missing any limbs.”

Sam didn’t bother mentioning the chronic pain he experienced in his bad leg. It would only result in Dean telling him to stop whining, or worse, later using that knowledge against him.

“You’re a smart guy,” Dean commented. “I don’t understand why you also have to be such a fucking idiot.”

They both watched Breznick wrap a small strip of wire mesh around one of the shattered bones, attempting to realign three pieces. Neither of them said anything for a long while as they watched the doctor do his best at repairing the damage.

“Don’t let lesser people hurt you like that,” Dean patted Sam’s head a couple times before kissing the top of it. “You’re better than this. Don’t let them make you weak.”


	11. The One-Time Lapse in Judgment

Sam paused for a moment to scratch his hand outside of the throne room. His cast had been driving him crazy for the past couple weeks. Below the charcoal grey plaster were a dozen pins, piercing through his skin, embedded into the bones, keeping them aligned. Wiggling his fingers stretched the skin, agitating the pins in turn. More than anything, he wanted to tear the damned things out, but breaking open his cast to harvest the metal needles might be mistaken for an attempt at getting a weapon. So he endured it as best he could, only occasionally indulging in scratching at the edge of the nuisance.

The guards and the greater-demon aides to Abaddon eyed his cast as he passed them by. It was a distinctly human accessory. True demons were largely unaffected by the health of their meatsuit. Over the years, he’d seen a few demons strolling about with otherwise-mortal wounds. Meanwhile, he’d thrown a temper tantrum and ended up losing the use of his dominant hand in a visible injury. It made him feel even more lowly than his worn linen clothes.

He took his place along the left edge of the throne room, nicely out of everyone’s way. All the usual suspects were filing into the chamber, assembling for some political or tactical debate. Based on the uncustomarily large number of advisors from Hell’s military, he suspected that they might be discussing a mutiny that needed suppressing. He always enjoyed hearing about those. Unfortunately, none had survived long enough for him to figure out a way to covertly assist them.

When Ruby entered, he had to force himself to not gawk. She was wearing a black leather dress. The corset top was laced in the front, revealing a narrow strip of skin between her breasts, down to her waist. Her skirt reached the floor, but had been slit along the side, up to the mid-thigh. A matching leather choker wrapped her throat, tapering down to highlight her collarbone. Each piece of clothing was accented with silver details, alluding to scorpions. He’d never seen her in an outfit like that. She looked stunning… and powerful; it was the leather. She’d been granted the clothes of a higher caste and, whether he liked it or not, that meant something.

She moved to stand nearby him, in her usual spot. He swallowed and wet his lips while trying to decide what to say to her. In a very real way, things had just changed between them. If she so chose, she could probably beat the everloving shit out of him in front of everyone there and not get more than a disappointed shake of the head from Dean. She was finally being given the full recognition of her accomplishments; meanwhile he was a periodically-soft half-breed, who was barely able to report one actionable vision per week. He hadn’t even worn shoes or underwear in the last however-many years— And yet, she was still Ruby.

His eyes helplessly lingered on her corset for a bit too long, so he whispered, “How do you breathe in that thing?”

The corner of her lip curled into a smirk. “It helps that I don’t technically need to breathe.”

He was about to comment on the choker, when Abaddon signaled for the doors to be closed and the session to begin.

“Thanks to our efforts to revitalize our military, we’ve reached a point where we can create meaningful change,” Abaddon began. “Hell used to be the most fearsome of all the planes. We held unquestioned respect, and now our passivity has made us little more than a children’s tale.”

Sam’s stomach knotted. That sounded an awful lot like one of Dean’s rants.

“It’s time that we were shown respect once more,” the queen continued. “We will make the humans know us. Our forces will go to Earth and show them the true horrors they’ve forgotten.”

“Your highness, if I may,” interjected Casas, one of the more senior soldiers. “We could have 50,000 combat-trained demons ready for service on Earth in two weeks. Just name the targets.”

Sam shifted over to Ruby and whispered, “We’ve got to stop this.”

“You’re just gonna singlehandedly hold back tens of thousands of demons,” she muttered under her breath at him.

“If we invade Earth, there won’t be anywhere to escape to,” he hissed back to her.

Ruby fumed for a moment, visibly annoyed by his valid point, then attempted to recover. She stepped forward a bit and commented, “With respect, Hell shouldn’t launch a full-scale invasion of Earth. Big talk and aspirations, but it’s not practical.” Clearly, her new status had given her some confidence in speaking her mind.

Dean let out a huff of amusement before pointing out, “That’s funny coming from someone who tried to unleash Lucifer to bring Hell on Earth.”

“Okay, first of all—“ She raised her finger defensively. “—I  _ did _ unleash Lucifer, so let’s not act like I’m the one who can’t do my job. It’s not my fault that things didn’t work out.”

Sam could feel some of the color drain from his face at being implicitly dragged into the conversation as an enemy.

Abaddon narrowed her eyes at him as she said, “Sweet Sammy, with his noble heart. You’ve screwed up a lot of things in your life, you know that?”

Dean let out a little chuckle and tilted his head at the accuracy of her assessment.

“Your highness,” Ruby replied on his behalf. “Please don’t flog him over the Lucifer thing. He had an angel and two hunters influencing him.” She gave Sam a quick glance that he recognized as her silent plead for him to say something helpful.

Sam’s mouth felt dry, but he took a deep breath and tried his old fallbacks: academic curiosity and misdirection. “I was under the impression that we want to make Hell powerful without the dependency on Lucifer’s damaged image. In the big picture, was it a bad thing that I stopped him? I want to make sure I understand what you want.”

Abaddon watched him thoughtfully for a few seconds, considering either the question or him. “You knew him more than anyone. You tell us.”

“He wouldn’t have prioritized Hell,” Sam replied. “The moment his brother became involved, Hell was the furthest thing from his mind.”

“It’s better that we have a strong demon-led Hell,” agreed Hana, one of the veteran torturers. “Being ruled by an angel makes it look like Heaven could whip us.”

“We’re stronger than the angels now,” commented Dean. “Since the fall, Heaven has been the weakest of the planes. Meanwhile, Earth’s stagnant, ripe for us to take.”

“I don’t see why we need to invade Earth,” Sam quickly interjected, trying to stall the momentum of the invasion talk. “Is the goal to kill the humans? Because then what? There’ll just be demons and souls of the dead. How does everything work at that point? Is the goal to enslave them? Why bother with all the infrastructure that’d take?”

“It’s about restoring fear and the natural order,” replied Abaddon. “I remember our golden age, when the humans believed in us.”

“Does that take an invasion?” He tried again. 

“A traditional war would be bad for our long-term business prospects,” agreed Cecily of the Crossroads. “If we’re going to take military action against the humans, then I’d advise that we run projections on how this will impact our infrastructure.”

Sam eagerly tried to pivot, to give a second argument against war. “Invading means becoming a force that can be monitored and quantified.”

Abaddon raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re suggesting that we keep our mystique.”

“I can’t tell what you’re thinking half the time and I’m waiting to be struck out of nowhere; it’s fucking terrifying.” Sam barely had to embellish. He noticed a smug smile spread across Dean’s face. At least someone was enjoying themselves. “Humans fear the unknown—”

“This isn’t just about fear. It’s about recognition,” Abaddon corrected.

That sounded all too familiar to Sam’s ears. They wanted to terrorize Earth, the way they were terrorizing him. And speaking of the fear they’d instilled, he became painfully aware that he was the only one there in linen and he might’ve just argued with the queen. He was desperately trying to think of something to appease her, as he commented, “There has to be a way of giving you—giving Hell the recognition it deserves, while also protecting our long-term investments.”

“If I can make a suggestion,” Ruby interjected, hopefully with a more constructive idea than his floundering. “Humans are particularly vulnerable when you drag them through a story. Bait them a bit, build up the tension, then unveil the villain.”

“Why Ruby, among your talents, you’re also a storyteller?” Abaddon purred.

“Ask Dean and Sam.”

Sam was a little insulted, but he could see that she was trying to help delay a full assault on Earth. He just wasn’t sure that she saw how highlighting her successful manipulation of two people in the room might’ve put a bigger target on her back. If there was one thing that the hierarchy of Hell didn’t lack, it was cockiness.

“There’s another risk with a candid attack on Earth,” Sam added. “Last I heard, Crowley is still on Earth. He’s an opportunist. If Hell and demons go mainstream, he might attempt to ally himself with the humans.”

He didn’t like the idea of placing a larger target on his long-coveted ally, but arguing that invasion might benefit the guy was one of the only stalling tactics he could think of that these insane warhawks might listen to. And, truth be told, if Crowley did align himself with human governments or organizations, that could be problematic for Sam. A demon could easily understand that within Hell, everyone did what was necessary to survive. But Crowley’s allies might be less inclined to deal with the human who’d spent years aiding the enemy. 

Sam knew he looked like a traitor. Towards the end of the murder game, he’d been met with another group of hunters. The whole group had heard about what he’d done and been rather hostile with him. His reputation was plenty sullied on Earth, and his only hope for an ally was in the amoral Crossroads demon that wouldn’t honestly care how many innocent humans he’d killed as long as he could be useful.

Dean reached down and took Abaddon’s hand. “We could cut off Crowley’s potential allies before we attack. There are dozens of access points in the hunter networks we’ve been monitoring. It wouldn’t be hard to point the hunters and the humans at Crowley, discredit him, maybe even use them to find him. Then, when he’s weak, we’ll move and show the humans what they really have to fear.”

Sam could feel his heart pounding and the acid in his stomach churning at the thought that he’d just accidentally redirected an entirely new military action against his desired ally. At least the invasion was slightly delayed, even if only slightly.

“I want operations to begin within the month,” Abaddon ordered. “Find targets and form teams. It’s about time we had some fun.”

* * *

The prospect of Hell launching some sort of attack on Earth was deeply unsettling. Not only was it a complication to the feasibility of any escape plan, the relationship between the planes would forever change. There would be no return to normalcy, should he manage to escape. He wouldn’t be able to slip back into a quiet, human life—albeit under a pseudonym and far from the community that considered him a traitor. But if Hell became known, news would likely spread more broadly about the faces of the Abyss, and while he wasn’t as important or famous as Abaddon or Dean, he was still technically sole cleric to the queen’s court.

With no better ideas of how to stop the mess, he spent much of his time studying the countless tales of the Dark Temple, trying to find a useful analogy to their current predicament. Long ago, there had been clear interactions between the planes. Surely he could find a lesson from history etched on the walls. Unfortunately, most of the stories he found were proud depictions of the devastation of long-lost human civilizations. It seemed that the wrath of Hell could be quite effective when properly directed.

The sacking of a village in the Fertile Crescent had come through as part of a particularly vivid vision. Sam pulled his left hand away from the wall in order to break his connection. It hadn’t been very insightful and he was getting tired of seeing children having their throats slit as their parents were made to watch. He was fatigued in general. His days certainly felt like they were getting longer and longer.

He walked back to his bedroom, ready to call it a night. None of the guards hassled him anymore; they all just casually eyed him with a familiar wariness. He recognized their faces. Fuck, if they’d had personal lives, he probably would’ve known their kids’ names by then. He shrugged off the odd thought as soon as he was in his room.

Sam carefully took off his linen shirt, tossed it aside, then used his left hand to wash his face. His fingers scratched at his perpetual scruff before rubbing his stinging eyes. He leaned against the wall above the basin, taking a moment to summon the energy to finish getting ready for bed. Opening his eyes, he stared at the surface of the water over the smooth black rock. He’d been planning on checking to see how bloodshot he was, but something else caught his attention. His hazel irises looked different; they were a bit lighter. Portions of what he remembered as bits of brown and green had speckled subtly with amber— Yellow.

He leaned in quickly and squinted in his panic. As he watched the color seemed to shift back to the more varied appearance. He couldn’t tell if the yellow had been a trick of his sleep-deprived mind or if he’d willed legitimate unpleasantness away. Regardless, he was trembling when he lay down on the bed. Like so many other nights, his exhaustion overtook him before he could begin dwelling on the latest shitty development.

* * *

_ Abaddon was seated on Dean’s lap, in their bed. They were naked and glistening with sweat. His arms wrapped around her, embracing her, nearly spooning her.  _

_ He kissed the flesh just below her ear, then murmured, “Come with me. I know you miss battle.” His hand slid down between her legs and started playing with her. “I want to fight beside you again.” _

_ She leaned her head back and kissed his cheek. “Someone needs to stay here and protect what we’ve built.” _

_ “If you want, I can guard the throne for you.” _

_ Abaddon didn’t answer right away. She stared straight ahead, thoughtfully considering what he’d suggested. Her expression betrayed some reservation, but Dean couldn’t see it. He shifted her on his lap, causing her to grunt as he pressed into her. The bed frame groaned as they started fucking. As the scene flickered out, the creaking faded into an odd melody. _

Sam woke up with an erection. He pulled his pillow out from below his head and used it to cover his face. Hopefully, it’d go away soon. That was his preferred method for dealing with morning wood, since he didn’t have a good way of dealing with the mess and loathed the idea of putting on a show for anyone who might be spying on him. He preferred to interpret that morning’s discovery as a random biological function or excitement about potentially finding a weak point between the power couple, and not some voyeuristic impulse. That’s just what he needed: to use his visions to become a pervert.

After a few minutes, his erection faded, and he started his normal routine. He put his shirt on, brushed his teeth, then leaned against the wall for a moment. Every morning, he took a little time to summon his willpower to face the day. Much earlier in the process, he used to pray, but that had long since been abandoned. No one could hear him. No one could help him but himself.

He’d only made it a hundred yards from his room when he heard humming drifting through the hallway. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard music, aside from that odd melody that he’d once mistaken for screaming. It was that strange tune from his vision. For a moment he worried that following it would lead him to Abaddon and Dean’s quarters, but then he realized it was coming from another corridor. Such a lovely thing as music felt like bait in a trap, and yet he decided to investigate. 

It was coming from the arcane labs. There was hardly a doubt in his mind that it was Ruby. On countless occasions while they’d been hunting Lilith, she’d absentmindedly hummed a tune as she worked. Despite the mystery having been solved, he was still drawn to such a lighthearted moment in the depths of Hell. He stood at the threshold of the arcane wing of the labyrinth, waiting to see if a nearby guard would tell him to turn around. When no warning came, he cautiously ventured into the new territory with only her voice to guide him. After a turn or two he could start to make out the words.

__ “Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin,  
__ “Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in,  
_ “Touch me with your naked hand, touch me with your glove,  
_ __ “Dance me to the end of love.”

Sam peeked into the room and saw Ruby lying on the floor underneath what looked like a large copper cauldron. She was chiseling some sort of ornate rune work into the base. Her dress was covered with a thick leather crafting apron that had been stained with what was undoubtedly spell components. The hem of the apron had caught the lower part of her dress, pulling it up so that much of her left leg was uncovered. His eyes lingered on her incidentally hiked-up skirt for a moment before he coughed slightly to announce his presence, startling her. 

She sat up while turning to see who was watching her, causing her forehead to hit the empty cauldron creating a sound akin to a gong. Unable to control himself, Sam started laughing at the absurd moment.

Ruby gingerly pushed herself up, out from under the large metal container. “Go ahead. Laugh it up, asshole.”

“I should sneak up on you at work more often.”

“Be sure to swing by tomorrow while I’m making Greek Fire.” She pointed at him. “Between the two of us, you’re the one most likely to have a problem with being incinerated.”

He tilted his head from side to side. “At least it’d be a change of pace.”

“Aren’t we feeling angsty this morning.” She tossed the small chisel and her gloves onto a tool cart, then walked up to him. “Next you’ll be asking for us to play Russian roulette.”

“Only if the bullets are made of melted down angel blades,” he replied.

“Oh, sweet Sammy.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, then whispered in his ear, “If we had angel blade bullets, we wouldn’t waste them while Abaddon and Dean are right down the hall.”

That was all Sam needed to hear. He picked her up and carried her to a workbench full of books, then tossed her onto it. Ruby huffed a bit indignantly at the landing before she realized that he was pushing up her skirt. She eagerly moved closer while he pulled down his pants. He didn’t bother with foreplay; he just pressed into her hard. It was clumsy, fucking her on top of loose books, with one hand in a cast, but he didn’t care about being suave or elegant. She grunted in some combination of pleasure and pain as he thrust frantically. Her heels dug into the small of his back as she pulled him tighter to her. He didn’t bother trying to get her off; when he was good and ready he finished in her.

Sam was panting. His heart was pounding and head was spinning from the wave of much needed endorphins. Without even bothering to pull out, he closed his eyes and took a few calming breaths. He could feel her fingernails trace the small trail of hair below his belly button as it descended down. Despite the emotional confusion, he had to admit that the sex had easily been the most pleasurable part of his time in Hell.

Ruby pushed herself up into a sitting position, legs still wrapped around him, his dick still inside her. She reached up, then drew him down into a kiss. He hesitated, unsure of what any of it meant anymore, but something snapped. He just wanted pleasure and comfort, and as fucked up as it was, she was the only person who could give him that. Sam gripped the back of her head and began kissing her ravenously. She tore his shirt down the center as he pushed her apron off over her head, then tugged down her corset so that her breasts were exposed. Without saying a word, he turned her around, bent her over the table, and started fucking her again. He cupped one of her tender breasts with his good hand and grabbed a fistful of hair with the other.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Give it to me.”

“Like that?” he grunted.

“Fuck yes.”

For a split second he thought about pulling out in order to deprive her of that pleasure, but he decided to let her have it. Anyway, when it came right down to it, he loved feeling her cum. When she clenched with ecstasy around him he broke, finishing with her. His fingertips gently slid along her skin, treasuring the softness of the moment before he pulled out. He didn’t bother speaking to her or helping her clean up; his brain was hardly recovering from the chemical high and foolish lapse in judgment. He just pulled his pants back up, then staggered off to retreat to his room.

The guards stared at him as he ineffectively held his torn shirt together with one hand. His cheeks were probably a bit flush after disappearing into her lab for less than a half hour. Worse, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the sound of their fucking had echoed down the stone hallway, carried by the same acoustics that had sent him the haunting song. That had definitely looked like a booty call. He avoided meeting the guards’ eyes as he quickly limped by.

When he was in the privacy of his room, he finally let out a long, exasperated sigh. He washed his face in the onyx basin, then lay down on his bed and stared at the drab ceiling. There was a time when he would’ve been having a nervous breakdown over hooking up with Ruby, but so much had happened since then. It was a dumb idea for a million reasons, and yet he barely cared that some small interpersonal change might fuck him over. Hell was considering invading Earth. He was trying to figure out how to acquire sufficient connections to escape his imprisonment. His old life was ruined. His eyes might’ve been changing color— Having a quickie with an ex didn’t rank very high on the list of things to panic over.

He was casually examining the ripped state of his only shirt, when the door opened. Ruby peeked inside, but didn’t immediately enter. He expected her to say something, probably warning that it’d been a one-time thing—if he had been thinking clearer, he might well have told her that… but neither of them said a word. They both watched each other for a long while, until she subtly nibbled her lower lip while raising an eyebrow. He hastily took off the ruined shirt, then grabbed her, pulling her into his bed. When they were done, he immediately fell asleep hugging her, nose nuzzled in her hair.

He woke up, panicked by a terrifying thought: him holding Ruby as he slept might’ve appeared almost affectionate. That was the last thing either of them needed. They didn’t want anyone to think that they might be each other’s weakness. Neither of them had the luxury of being able to show that kind of vulnerability. Thankfully, when he opened his eyes the next morning, he discovered that she was gone.

* * *

Sam had no idea how he was supposed to deal with the fact that his shirt was torn down the front. It wasn’t as though he had an extensive wardrobe or a needle and thread. He could go to the infirmary to see if Breznick liked him enough to stitch it back up for him. Not that it wouldn’t be obvious that his clothes were being held together with sutures. Ideally, he’d go sneak off to the darkness of his temple and postpone the inevitable scolding for as long as possible. He was just about to grab a few books to hold him over at the temple for a while, when the door opened.

Dean walked in with a stupid smile already plastered on his face. He fucking knew. In an amusing voice he said, “That’s awesome.”

“Mistakes were made,” Sam sighed. “Can I get a new shirt?”

“Oh, no. You’re gonna wear this for a while,” Dean told him as he adjusted the way the torn shirt was positioned. “This here, this is the shirt of a man who had sex with a woman capable of physically destroying him.”

Without thinking, he shot back, “I don’t see you wearing one.” He braced himself for a hit, but none came. Instead, his brother tilted his head, acknowledging the point.

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t catch me dead wearing that low-class shit anyway.” Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder a bit too hard, then gestured for his brother to follow him out into the hallway. “I’m glad you’re finally having some fun. For a while there I thought one of the torturers made it so you couldn’t get it up.”

Sam pulled his shirt closed around him, plenty self-conscious from having his ability to maintain an erection discussed while passing guards in the hallways. “It works,” he confirmed defensively, then quickly added, “But it was a fluke, I was feeling a little pent up and Ruby was just an easy outlet. It was an accident.”

“Yeah.” Dean chuckled. “You tripped and your dick fell into her three times.”

Well, that more or less answered the question of whether Ruby’s lab and his bedroom were still periodically being monitored.

“Like you said, we used to have sex. She’s familiar,” Sam explained. “It’s nothing more than that.”

Dean patted him on the back. “I don’t care how you work off the stress, as long as it doesn’t cause problems. We need the two of you tough, competent, and loyal. If you can’t be adults, then I’ll have to have a little fun teaching that particular lesson.”

Sam’s stomach knotted, imagining himself being castrated or otherwise sexually abused. It’d probably be wise to get clarification about the do’s and don’ts of consensual sexual relationships in Hell at some point, though he wasn’t exactly making plans to revisit that murky territory. He was about to reiterate that he wasn’t interested in some ongoing physical relationship, but before he could, they reached the infirmary. Evidently, today was the day that his right wrist would be liberated.

The cast was cut off, revealing his scarred and frail hand. Breznick, one-by-one, yanked out the pins and dropped them into a ceramic bowl. Blood welled up where each pin was removed, but the tiny wounds weren’t dabbed or treated in any meaningful way. When all the pins were gone, Sam gingerly wriggled his fingers. The muscles ached from lack of use, and he could feel a slight rubbing sensation that he assumed was from a poorly-positioned piece of wire mesh. Two of the bones still hurt in very specific places, possibly the location of misaligned breaks.

Dean cupped the back of Sam’s head, then leaned in to warn him, “Don’t fuck yourself up again.”

He nodded. “I’ll do better.”

“I know you will.” The knight grabbed Sam’s hand and started examining it with a pointed roughness. “We’re about to make big changes and your visions could make a huge difference for us. Clerics of Hell aren’t just someone that rides around in a popemobile. You guys make the big plays and figure out the odd wins.” He held up the fragile hand in front of Sam’s face, squeezing it a bit, causing blood to trickle from the pin holes. “I won’t tolerate the human failings of your body getting in the way of our mission. Next time you get hurt, you’re losing the meat and we’re getting into some weird prosthetics or Island of Dr. Moreau shit. Got me?”

“Yeah.”

Dean let go of his hand, then patted Sam’s cheek, smearing him with trace amounts of his own blood. He gave his little brother a kiss on the forehead as he got up to leave. “That’s a good boy.”


	12. The Hierarchy of Hell

Azazel had famously had yellow eyes; for a long time it was the way Sam’s family had identified the powerful demon. When he was younger, the question of ‘why’ had never crossed his mind. Some demons had weird eyes. Now he knew better. Crossroads demons had red eyes. Greater demons had white eyes. And yellow eyes… were suddenly a major concern of his.

Researching in the temple didn’t seem like a viable option. The elaborate, jet tapestries of Hell’s history weren’t in color, leaving him to grope wildly, hoping to trigger what felt like a one-in-a-million vision. So he decided to stay in his room for the day and pore through his library. Knowing that there was a fair chance his room was being monitored, he made a little show of trying to figure out what he wanted to research. He didn’t want to appear like a man with a mission.

After a little while, he located a few books containing sections on Azazel. He’d already read a few of them, but began rereading the text with a greater attention to detail and knowledge of some very particular aspect of what he was looking for. One of the oldest accounts mentioned Azazel’s sister, Dagon.

Sam’s brow furrowed at the idea that the architect of his life had had a sibling. When he’d first arrived in Hell, Dean and Abaddon had told him that it was very rare for demons to have families in a biological way, so it seemed likely that there was more to the story. He started flipping through the books with Dagon as the focus of his efforts. And boy, did he find accolades.

It seemed that Dagon had been a fairly famous member of Hell’s upper class before her assassination in the 18th century. She’d helped establish an order of elite soldiers that served directly under the knights of Hell, and she served as captain of Hell’s guard for several hundred years. She had been incredibly popular with her subordinates and the military class—which in Sam’s mind could’ve explained why whoever had been in charge had assassinated her—and she had the distinction of being the last known “Princess of Hell.”

Sam started at the word ‘Princess.’ It was capitalized, like a legitimate title. He knew that Crowley had called himself king of Hell and that Abaddon was the queen, but he’d never heard of a princess. 

As quickly as he could without appearing visibly alarmed, he flipped through the indexes of several books that focused on the history of Hell’s hierarchy. Much like the Crossroads, he noticed that sources seemed oddly lacking. It took some doing, but he eventually found one book that had a useful entry.

Princes and princesses of Hell were a distinct class of demon, that existed above greater demons. The first generation was created by Lucifer and was considered blessed, bestowed with gifts beyond that of normal demons. They used to serve at a level comparable to knights, though rarely were they involved in combat. Like the other classes, theirs was able to propagate through ritual or under extremely unusual circumstances through biological techniques, but the princes and princesses had never had more than a few dozen in their class at a time. In the last hundred years, they had started dying off. Sam’s fingertip settled just below the line detailing the class’ distinctive yellow eyes.

Azazel had been a prince of Hell, and Sam was his heir. That was why he’d been given the Dark Temple. The class of demon had been known for its connection with Lucifer and powers that often slotted in well with being a cleric. At first glance it felt like the revelation didn’t mean anything, that it only barely clarified his qualification for work already assigned. But then he looked at the hierarchy a bit. A real prince could carry similar authority to a knight. Abaddon was the most powerful of all the knights, and he was a half-breed bastard… but he’d been made what he was by a prince of Hell. He was the sole heir to such a title, one that might technically fall within the line of succession.

The thought shook him. All things being equal, he didn’t want that rare distinction. The fact that it could potentially bring attention to him made it even less desirable. Abaddon and Dean were domineering and derived some of their power from perceived political authority. The couple was incredibly dangerous in their own right, but neither was stupid enough to think that that was all it took to rule Hell. Fear, posturing, and their innate rank as knights of Hell gave them power. The last thing Sam wanted to do was have them start comparing his rank against them and realize that maybe it wasn’t as one-sided as they’d assumed.

He shook his head in disbelief. Surely they had considered this before taking him on as a project. They knew he was Azazel’s heir. Beating that lesson into him had been a pillar of his first year there. But they’d seemed awfully focused on his capacity as a seer. He was a tool thanks to his precognitive ability, and he was a trophy thanks to his status as the former vessel of Lucifer. But to humor the idea that a mortal, humanity-corrupted creature was something threatening.... It felt like they didn’t believe that could be the case.

Maybe Abaddon was cocky? Being one of the most powerful creatures on Earth and in Hell for millennia was bound to go to one’s head. But she didn’t strike him as the sort to not recognize an imminent threat. She just might’ve felt successful in their thorough attempt to subjugate him. He was obediently assuring them that he understood his next injury would mean permanent, voluntary mutilation. Meanwhile, she had Dean, an incredibly powerful creature in his own right, worshipping the ground she walked on.

He didn’t want to do anything to tempt punishment. It wasn’t as though being a prince of Hell was going to help him. He was a pathetic excuse for a demon, with no allies apart from Ruby. Whatever benefits he might gain from the class would invariably come with negatives attached. Ideally, the information would go unknown or ignored by anyone in a position to hurt him.

He gripped the edge of the pages describing lineage rights of princes and princesses of Hell. For a moment he thought about ripping them out and burning them, but hesitated. There were fair odds that he was being watched. Destroying evidence was bound to get him tortured and cause the matter to be investigated. Eventually whatever he’d hidden would come to light. How bad would that look? It’d get the gears turning and tip off his captors that he was aware of the potential significance of the title. He closed the book, then shut his eyes and prayed that they weren’t speckled with extra yellow.

* * *

Sam walked a bit faster than usual as he made his way to the temple. His instincts told him to hide somewhere, and the shadowy building had become familiar. Whether it was his imagination or not, people rarely visited him there, and even less frequently did someone try to tell him what to do there. Custom dictated that he had a certain amount of authority within those walls. So far, his captors had humored such a tradition. For that he was grateful. Unfortunately, not everyone was so concerned with appearances and etiquette.

Ruby was sitting on top of the altar, waiting for him when he arrived. It wasn’t the first time she’d casually perched herself on the holy relic. Normally, he didn’t care—the blasphemy didn’t bother him at all—but in that moment he disliked the way it reflected on their nearly close relationship.

“This isn’t a good time,” he told her.

“Two minutes.” When he didn’t argue, she continued. “If you start getting soft because of me, we’re both in deep shit.”

“I’m not soft,” he replied in nearly a snarl. “Definitely not for you.” Anyway, she was the one warning him. “And look who’s talking.”

She rolled her eyes. “Self-preservation, genius.”

He glared at her. “Get off the fucking altar.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you suddenly had a hard-on for Lucifer.”

Sam walked over to her as he said, “This is my temple. I don’t go into your lab and start—“ As soon as his hand settled on her thigh to pull her off the stone altar, he was overcome by a vision. 

_ She was seated on the edge of the altar, legs wrapped around him as he fucked her. They’d both shed their clothes—pale, naked bodies greedily clinging to each other in the darkness. Without missing a beat, he laid her down on the altar, then climbed on top of her. When her eyes turned black, he thrust harder and faster. _

She was staring at him, brow furrowed slightly in confusion. Then a look of quiet alarm formed on her face, telling him that she figured out he’d just had a vision. In an eager voice she asked, “What was it?”

He let go of her before turning away and muttering, “Just get out of here.”

Without saying another word, she hopped down from the stone slab and walked from the room. Her footsteps paused for a moment as she hesitated at the doorway, but he didn’t look over at her. He didn’t want to make eye contact, implicitly inviting her to speak or stay.

When she was gone, he hunched forward, resting his elbows on the altar. He didn’t know what to do about what had just happened. Fucking her had been a lapse in judgment. Despite his attempts to hold onto his reason and be cautious, Hell seemed to teem with an impulsive culture. It was part of the insanity of the damn place. Abaddon might’ve been fairly level-headed, but her habit of indulging Dean’s whims had set a standard, one that Sam might’ve been slipping towards. His older brother had spontaneous bursts of violence, lust, and pride. Hopefully, Sam giving into lust wouldn’t be particularly noteworthy.

Dean had actually invited him to go have sex with Ruby or other demons before. It had been a foreseeable possibility, even encouraged…. And yet, for some reason, the whole thing was worrying him. He and Ruby had had sex three times—not a record, but hardly the chance mistake he’d tried to brush it off as. Worse, though, was the fact that he’d fallen asleep next to her afterwards, holding her. ‘Snuggling’ as Dean had called it  years ago . It looked bad, or at least it could prove problematic.

He didn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. Things between him and Ruby were complicated, but they weren’t a couple or anything. They weren’t leverage to use against each other, nor were they “lovers in league against Abaddon.” This was the sort of place where such tender impulses as affection had to be backed by the power to silence any critics. Dean and Abaddon had that luxury, but everyone else couldn’t allow any showing of weakness, or worse, that they were concealing it.

For a moment, he considered going to Abaddon directly. Even though she undoubtedly had heard that he’d had sex with Ruby, he wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t keeping secrets, but he hesitated. Just the act of bringing it to her attention placed significance on the encounter. He could imagine the knight-queen asking him why he felt the need to note such a minor interaction—unless to him it really did mean something. A confession was built on a foundation of guilt. He could envision Abaddon’s lips curling into a predatory grin while asking what he felt guilty about. The whole thing was ridiculous, convoluted, and he was almost certainly overthinking everything. That was part of Hell’s charm.

Sam looked up at the idol of Lucifer and narrowed his eyes. “I bet you think this is fucking hilarious.”

* * *

Sam was reading in his bedroom when the door opened. Dean walked in followed by two unfamiliar lesser demons.

“Stand up,” the knight ordered.

Without hesitation, Sam stood up and asked, “What’s going on?”

“You look like shit.” He snapped his fingers.

The two demons abruptly hurried over to Sam, then began cutting and pulling his linen clothes off. When he tried to recoil or cover himself, Dean shook his head, silently ordering him to stand there, at attention, fully nude. The two demons pulled out a measuring tape and started making notes on his dimensions. To his immense surprise, he realized the pair were tailors.

Once things were well on their way, Dean departed with a quick, “Enjoy it,” as he slipped out the door.

In a matter of less than an hour, Sam had a custom suit of sorts: black leather pants of a similar design as Dean’s, a dark purple button-up shirt with a mandarin collar, and a slimming black leather jacket that extended to his mid-thigh. Personally, it wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever buy, but at least it wasn’t a flimsy, thin fabric—and they finally gave him underwear. And yet, he wasn’t immediately given the new clothing. 

While the final modifications were being made, he was given a black, satin robe, and guided from his bedroom. His guards escorted him to a room that he’d never been to before, and when he stepped inside he was completely thrown by its contents. The small room contained a sizable, silver clawfoot bathtub and several narrow shelves containing a dozen vials of brightly colored liquids. A bath had already been drawn; he could even smell some sort of faint citrus scent. 

A female lesser demon was waiting between the bathtub and shelves. She had ashen skin, dark eyes, and black hair that was pulled back into a long, straight ponytail. As far as he could tell, she also wasn’t wearing anything below her petite, black satin robe. 

The guards closed the door behind Sam, leaving him alone with the woman. She held her hand out, gesturing to the tub. It felt like a trap. He almost turned around to try the door in order to leave, but his body wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed. It was only through the same effect that stopped his beard from growing that he didn’t smell absolutely awful.

“Take off your robe,” the woman said in a nearly-staticy voice.

He didn’t like the idea of being naked. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed; the long-term forced nudity had done a lot to ease any prudishness he might’ve otherwise felt. Some part of him had internalized the association between being exposed and torture. Granted, he would be nude in order to enjoy what was surely an incredibly rare perk in Hell.

Sam cautiously untied the robe, then let it fall to the floor. He stood for a moment, unsure what she was supposed to do. Thankfully, she didn’t take off her robe, so he gingerly approached the bath, then climbed in. The water was perfectly warm and profoundly soothing. He hadn’t realized how many of his muscles had been aching until they began unknotting. Without even thinking, he leaned his head back against the tub and closed his eyes. The smell of orange blossom oil or whatever that was felt like it was penetrating his soul.

Suddenly something touched his chest, making him jerk a couple inches forward and open his eyes. The woman was kneeling beside the tub and was holding a washcloth to him. He stared wide-eyed at her. Her robe had been slipped off of her arms so that it wouldn’t get wet, incidentally exposing her breasts. She was supposed to bathe him. As he watched her, he felt her slide the cloth down his torso. Sam hastily grabbed her wrist before she reached his dick.

“I don’t need you to do that.” He took the washcloth from her, then pushed her hand out from the water.

She nodded, then scooted back along the floor a bit while avoiding eye contact. He wasn’t sure if he’d insulted her or committed some sort of cultural faux pas. No one bothered explaining half the stuff that went on around him. And he sure as hell hadn’t ever been in a situation where a demon was serving him. For all he knew, it was customary to fuck the help. Etiquette be damned; he wasn’t interested in getting a handjob in a bath. The thought made him feel a bit dirty, somewhat undercutting the otherwise pleasant experience.

He tried to ignore her and focus on washing himself off. After a while the water cooled a bit, but the woman wordlessly added a vial of pale blue liquid, which immediately brought the water back up to a comfortable temperature. He diligently scrubbed every millimeter of his body three times over, trying to stretch out the bath for as long as possible, though he knew it was bound to end eventually. But to his surprise, he was met with another opportunity to stay put a bit longer.

The woman told him, “I’m supposed to shave you.” She lifted a straight-edge razor for him to see.

He shifted slightly, unconsciously covering his crotch. “Please tell me it’s just the face.”

“I can do more if you’d like, but I was only instructed to remove your beard.”

“Ah.” He touched the scruff on his chin. It’d be nice to no longer have the rough nuisance on his face, though he wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with a demon dragging a blade along his neck. Unfortunately, it didn’t sound optional. “Okay.”

His heart was pounding and his adrenaline was pumping, but he allowed her to reposition his head back against the tub wall. She silently applied a vial of oil to his face and neck, then carefully began shaving him. She wiped the blade clean on a hand towel as she worked. The whole while he was painfully aware of the fact that she was still topless. It was the most uncomfortable shave of his life, though to her credit she didn’t nick his flesh.

When she was done, she took a fresh washcloth and gently wiped his skin. The way she caressed him was almost flirtatious. Her eyes flicked to check that the door was still closed, then she leaned in and whispered, “I’ve heard a rumor: Hell has a new prince.” She breathed warmly in his ear. “I’ve never fucked a high-caste.”

Sam felt like his heart might’ve stopped. It was a trap set by Dean—it could’ve been a trap. Lulling him into a false sense of ease with the bath, then throw an easy fuck at him, assuming he’d be so stupid or reckless as to go along with that gossip. He didn’t want to be regarded as a prince of Hell, but somebody else had evidently thought up the possibility. He’d finally earned his leather and that was garnering him more attention. Regardless, he didn’t want that kind of attention, sexual or political. He needed to defuse the situation and grovel a bit for anyone who might be watching.

Sam shoved her off of him. Before he knew it, he was standing outside of the tub, completely naked, dripping wet, pinning her to the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a servant of the queen,” he told her and anyone else who might be watching. He didn’t even want to utter the word prince. “She made me her cleric, so I’m her cleric. Anything I am is because she declared it.” 

His intention to make a show of his dubious obedience was nearly drowned out by a swell of emotions. Aside from Ruby, the attendant was the first demon since arriving in Hell that he’d really been able to get his hands on. His fingers gripped her neck. Part of him wanted to throttle her, to smash her into the stone wall until there was nothing left but soft pulp coating his palms.  Such a violent impulse shook him. That wasn’t like him… and yet, it was certainly understandable.

As he hesitated, he noticed her expression turning distinctly unimpressed. She wasn’t scared of him. He couldn’t just let her leave. Ending it now meant a retreat or failure. He needed to take a stand or risk even more scrutiny. His right hand slid up her cheek, then he gouged her eye out with his thumb as he hissed, “Don’t listen to rumors. Listen to our queen.”

He dropped her to the ground as she screamed in pain and scurried to the other side of the room. Her blood and the soft, gelatinous flesh of her eyeball coated his thumb. He stared at the disgusting mixture for a second. On some level he was disturbed, but mostly he was just satisfied that he’d acted to protect himself. He’d done what was necessary.

Staring at the pink liquid he realized that it included a small amount of demon blood. Great care had been taken to make sure that he hadn’t had access to any over the years. While he was briefly alone, it was an opportunity he’d never had… and yet the thought of tasting it, of losing himself to his figurative demons... he wouldn’t do it. He’d sacrificed too much to throw it away now. Sam held his bloody hand out and turned his head away so that he wasn’t looking at it. A moment later, several guards ran in to see the commotion.

“She questioned the queen’s authority,” he explained before the guards could manhandle him. 

To his surprise, none of the guards attempted to restrain him. Instead they were standing there, uncertain what to do with themselves.

The lead guard turned to the others and instructed, “Arrest her and get another attendant.”

Sam stood there staring at the guards, wary of another fight, but a minute later something odd happened. A second demon came in, unbothered by the informal standoff. She gingerly took a damp cloth and began washing his bloody hand.

The lead guard’s posture relaxed slightly, then he asked, “Shall I keep a guard here for you?”

It took Sam several seconds to realize that the question was directed at him. It was apparently an offer made for his benefit.

“No. We’ll be fine.”

“Understood, sir.” The guard nodded. “We’ll be outside.”


	13. The Assignment

Sam suspected that he was still under tighter restrictions than the pseudo-promotion may have otherwise afforded. He wore leather clothes, was groomed, and the guards treated him with some degree of respect, however he was an inferior and outsider, best truncated as a bastard. Dean seemed to bring it up every chance he could.

Sure enough, despite his new status, Sam was still denied access to two wings of Hell. He had slightly more access, but it seemed that he was still being restricted to a subset of the inner sanctum. Piecing together descriptions from five different books, he believed that he was actively being kept from Hell’s archives and the Crossroads. He couldn’t really blame them. If he was allowed into the full archives, he’d probably spend every waking minute trying to figure out an escape plan, and if he had any time alone with the upper tier of Crossroads demons, he’d begin probing them for possible alliances.

The rumor that he was a prince of Hell was deeply unnerving. He didn’t know which was a more unsettling thought: that Dean and Abaddon had instructed a random minion to try to get him to own up to the title, or that there really was a rumor spreading through Hell about him. The woman had been the first pedestrian demon that he had interacted with while not being watched closely, and she’d hit him with that bombshell. That seemed like an awful coincidence… and yet, what if there were actually a reasonable number of demons out there, excited about the prospect of a new prince, and that was just the first opportunity to reach out to him?

He was getting heartburn just thinking about such a scenario. Political allies were useful; an unidentified set of whispers was a target on his back. He needed a very precise sort of help, and everything else was just more reasons for Dean and Abaddon to become suspicious. He needed advice or at least a second opinion, so he went to go talk to the only person he could.

He found Ruby in her lab, perched on a stool at her workbench, delicately pouring silvery liquid metal into small molds. When she glanced up at him, she paused for a moment to take in his new appearance. She stood up, and took a little stroll around him to appreciate the full effect.

“You finally upgraded,” she told him, subtly nodding her head with approval. 

He self-consciously adjusted his jacket, then nodded at the metal molds. It almost looked like she was working an ammunition station. “New project?”

She shot him a prideful smile, then popped a previously filled mold open. Between her fingers rested a small, silver-colored bullet. “You gave me an epiphany. It’s a bullet made from an angel blade. They’re gonna be test-run on Earth, if there’s any heavenly opposition.” Her eyes met him, knowingly. “It’ll kill all but the top-class demons. Crowley is fair game, but these don’t pose a risk to our queen.”

He shared her disappointment, but was grateful that she warned him not to make any drastic plays. Their brief fantasy of using such a thing on the knights was just that, wishful thinking. In a confident voice he said, “As it should be.”

Normally, he might engage in a bit more banter, but he was painfully aware that there might be someone watching them. He didn’t want to appear as though he was being too tender with her, so he opted for a slightly more aggressive approach. He grabbed her and forcibly flipped her around, so that she was pinned to the workbench. She peeked back over her shoulder with an intrigued expression on her face.

“Come to my temple,” he ordered, then rocked his hips down and forward to press against her ass in a clearly suggestive manner. “I want to try something.” Without letting her up, he tucked some of her hair behind her ear as he leaned in to whisper to her. “We need to talk in private.”

He could feel her body tense subtly at the realization that something might be wrong, but thankfully she didn’t show it. “Anything for the good of the realm.” She tilted her head toward her work, then added, “Give me a few minutes to clean this up. I’ll meet you there.”

All during the walk to the temple, he was trying to figure out the best way to talk to her. While his sanctum seemed less likely to be under observation than his bedroom or her lab, there was always the chance that someone would walk in. Hiding out in the back whispering was a bit suspicious— He felt so fucking paranoid. Every minute or so he had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.

When he got back to the temple, he stood for a moment, leaning against the altar, trying to order his thoughts. He focused as hard as he could on trying to trigger a vision of the near future, hoping to see if he was about to be overheard saying something so implicating that Hell’s elite guard came charging in. But, of course, nothing of value trickled past his mind. 

When Ruby arrived, Sam gestured for her to join him. He knelt down in front of her and started untying her leather corset. She raised an eyebrow at his slightly uncharacteristic forwardness, but thankfully didn’t ask him what the fuck he was doing. Taking his lead, she pushed off his jacket, then stroked his collarbone while beginning to unbutton his shirt. 

As he worked, he quietly told her, “A servant heard a rumor that I’m a prince of Hell.” Ruby’s fingers lightly squeezed his shoulder at his words. “I turned her into Abaddon for disloyalty.”

With the last bit of lacing undone, he pushed the corset off of her, revealing her breasts. He pulled her to him, pushing his face into her chest, then murmured into her soft flesh, “I can’t tell if it’s one of their games.”

Ruby touched his chin, guiding him to stand in front of her, before she undid his pants, dropping them to the ground. She pushed him back a bit, so that he was seated on the altar, then slid off her skirt, and climbed onto his lap. His hand slid down her back, helping to pull her closer so that he pressed into her. He wrapped his arms around her and gripped her hair.

“I haven’t—“ She groaned loudly as she started moving her hips in a fast rhythm, but when she spoke to him it was in a whisper. “I haven’t heard of a-a game, not with—prince.”

“I don’t know how to stop the rumors,” he breathed in her ear.

“Is it true?” she panted.

“Maybe,” he grunted. “My eyes—thought they looked yellow once.” He tore off her leather choker, tossing it aside so that he could nibble lightly at her neck. “Like Azazel.”

“But he was a cler—” He actually felt her clench around him in surprise at the realization.

Sam could see the concern in her eyes as the pieces clicked into place in her mind. Azazel had famously been a cleric of Hell, but that was a position given to him and wasn’t the same as his lesser-mentioned subspecies.

He had to admit that the speed with which she seemed to be processing the implications was pushing him closer to the breaking point. His hands pressed her down, tighter to him. She moaned at the move, then shoved him back as she started riding him harder.

She leaned in closer, trying to discern his eye color in the dim light of the church. He didn’t attempt to evade her gaze. Her eyes widened and mouth formed a little ‘oh’ at what he assumed was her noticing that his irises were a bit off. While riding him, with their eyes locked, she came.

For a fleeting moment, it was incredible, but then he realized that it might look like a moment of tender connection. While she was still moaning with pleasure, he reached up and pushed her face away from him. Rather than breaking his nose at the possible insult, she simply shifted back a bit so that they weren’t right in each other’s faces.

Sam lay there on the altar, arms draped on either side as Ruby rode him. He was staring upside down at the statue of Lucifer looming over them in the shadows. Everything was so fucked up. His fingers gripped the edge of the sacred stone as he came.

* * *

Sex on top of the altar had been a bad idea.

Sam was staring at his reflection in the washing basin. His irises were noticeably more yellow than the last time he’d checked. Hell or unholy-whatever had been changing him, and he’d been dumb enough to have sex on top of the altar of the Dark Temple. Going forward, when faced with the option to do something out of a paranormal horror movie, he would pass. 

He squinted and strained, trying to get them to go back to normal, but it wasn’t working. Worse, Abaddon had called a meeting in the throne room and he was late. He took a few deep breaths, in an attempt to get some control over himself, but he was too rattled for it to do much good.

Without warning, the door opened and, from the corner of his eye, he could see Dean enter. That was just his luck. Unsure what else to do, Sam just froze, hunched over the washing basin, keeping his eyes down.

“What’re you doing? We were supposed to start five minutes ago,” Dean told him. When Sam didn’t look up at him, he hit his little brother in the shoulder. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” He grabbed Sam’s jaw and turned it up so that their eyes finally met. The anger on his face faded into shock as he took in the change. 

For a moment, Sam expected him to fly into a rage, but instead, Dean grabbed him, pulling him into a hug. The knight embraced him so closely that it inspired a claustrophobic feeling. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sam fought the impulse for his body to tense at the question. He didn’t want to give Dean any reason to suspect that his fear was nuanced. To the extent they could avoid all mention of the significance of the symbolism of yellow eyes, the better. He had no control over what Dean or Abaddon already knew, but at the very least, he could feign ignorance.

“I was scared.“ He tried to find wording that would satisfy his brother. It didn’t take long for him to settle on them. “I was scared to admit it, that my demon side is waking up.”

He could feel Dean’s lips smile, pressed uncomfortably close to Sam’s cheek in their lingering embrace. “It’s a good thing, Sammy. You’re home. You feel that, don’t you?”

A few real tears escaped Sam. Even if he’d offered up the confession to appease his brother, it didn’t mean that it was baseless.

“Yeah. I do.”

Dean gripped Sam’s upper arms, then held him out at arms’ length to get another look at him. A delighted smile formed on his face. “We weren’t sure if you’d change physically.” He chuckled. “God, of course you had to get the ugly yellow eyes. I was telling Abby that I thought it’d be black eyes, if anything. Chuck said you went black-eyes when you toasted Lilith. That’s where my money was.”

“Yeah, it’s weird.” He once again pretended to have no greater context for it, but didn’t want to act suspiciously uninterested in such a personal development. “I guess I take after Azazel more than all the demons I drained.”

The knight nodded at the suggestion, then patted him on the shoulder and started leading him out of the room. “Come on. Nobody’s gonna give you shit for being a couple minutes late.”

Sam felt incredibly self-conscious walking to the throne room. The guards they passed straightened more as the two of them walked by. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that several of them were watching him with genuine curiosity. Just a few years ago, he was a naked prisoner being tortured by some of Hell’s top abusers. Now he was the Cleric of the Dark Temple, wearing high-class clothes, and his eyes alluded to the power of a lost subspecies of demon. He was very nearly a rags-to-riches story, though when Dean clapped his back, his bad leg buckled slightly, acting as a memento mori for all to witness.

When they reached the throne room, he saw that instead of a meeting of all her advisors, Abaddon had summoned a much smaller group. Ruby stood toward the front of the chamber and watched him with a barely perceptible concerned expression. 

“The lost son has been found,” Abaddon commented, but her eyes widened at the sight of Sam. She sat up in her seat and grinned with amusement. “Oh my.”

“He was a bit spooked,” Dean explained while depositing his brother in front of the queen, then going to take his normal spot.

Abaddon smiled warmly at Sam, then asked, “Is that permanent or can you switch it off?”

He swallowed, but his mouth and throat felt suddenly dry. “I think I made it fade a bit, but I can’t just blink it away. Not yet at least.” Maintaining eye contact with her made him want to fidget—especially knowing what she was gawking at—but he didn’t risk looking away. “I can’t feel it, so I don’t know what I look like at any given moment.”

Dean lightly caressed Abaddon’s neck, turning her attention up to him, then he asked her, “Do we want to change the plans?”

She took his hand and kissed the back of it. “It’s your operation. Are you worried that it will draw too much attention?”

He thought for a few seconds before glancing up at Sam. Without taking his gaze off his brother, Dean told her, “No. I like it. Let’s see how weird things can get before anyone gives a damn.”

“Reconnaissance doesn’t always need to be invisible,” she replied in apparent agreement, then she turned back to Sam. “Congratulations. You’re going to Earth.”

* * *

The mission was fairly straightforward: investigate several potential targets for Hell’s initial assaults on Earth. The team was small, but contained experts of various tactical considerations, including combat, infiltration, economical and political impact, even magical—he’d been happy to see Ruby on the roster. Initially, he hadn’t understood why he was being brought along. Whether they knew it or not, he was still a flight risk. But he quickly understood his unique value. They wanted him to visit the sights of the attacks to see if his precognition or clairvoyance could provide any additional intel that might otherwise be missed.

Needless to say, he was far less interested in the mission and more preoccupied with trying to find a way to flee from the constraints of Hell. His first thought was to pull Ruby off to the temple and brainstorm an escape plan, likely under the cover of sex—definitely not on the altar again. The last thing he needed was for his eyes to turn solid yellow or for him to sprout horns.

Unfortunately, intentionally or not, Abaddon didn’t give enough downtime before the mission for a conspiracy to bloom. As soon as the meeting had been disbanded, Dean had been tasked with getting him ready for what would inevitably be a make-or-break moment. Sam was about to be released back into his previous plane; a refresher was in order.

“I’m sure it’s gonna be tempting to run around up there,” Dean told him. “But it isn’t gonna be like the old days. It’s dangerous up there for you. You aren’t human anymore. Hunters will go after you in a heartbeat.” Sam wanted to point out that Dean had personally seen to that, but he held his tongue. “The first time I went back, everything felt wrong. It was disgusting. You’ve got to be careful.”

“Won’t you be there?” He tried to sound concerned about the possibility of being out there in the unusual circumstances alone. In actuality, he wanted to be as far from the knight as was feasible.

“I’ll be there, but I’m in charge of this mission. I can’t be saving your ass all the time,” he explained as they walked through the halls. “We’re gonna be hitting ten cities, maybe a couple hours at each tops. That means I need you staying focused. The minute you catch a vision, you let us know.”

Sam nodded, but he was hardly listening. His mind was racing at the thought of going back to Earth. They’d be moving around enough in populated areas that he might be able to slip away. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to outrun or evade a search party of demons, but with this being his only opportunity in a very long time, it seemed insane to not try. He was trying to figure out whether sneaking onto a boat or train would be an easier way to get out of the area quickly, when his brother led him into the knights’ private quarters.

His stomach knotted at being in the room he’d occasionally caught secret glimpses of but never entered. Dean opened the door and gestured for him to help himself to the wine as he started packing a leather satchel. Sam poured himself half a glass, then took a sip. The potent, red liquid didn’t burn going down nearly as much as last time. He watched as his brother placed the First Blade in his bag.

“Am I gonna get a weapon?”

“No,” Dean replied without looking up. “You aren’t a fighter anymore. If we’re counting on the crippled, half-human in a melee, the fight’s already done.”

Out of Dean’s field of view, Sam subtly clenched his fists. A few sharp jolts of pain radiated through his right hand. He swallowed his anger, then matter-of-factly said, “I guess that makes sense.”

“Get dressed,” the elder Winchester instructed with a nod to some clothes that were sitting on the dining table.

The mission to Earth was admittedly still very new in his mind, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he’d need to change clothing. He’d grown used to the black leather aesthetic, yet upon reflection it wasn’t very common among humans. If anything it would cast him as an industrial-metal punk, or someone cosplaying as an off-brand Matrix character. He’d forgotten how absurd the look had seemed. Now, it communicated a sort of cultural armor, one that he had a small reservation about losing.

Sam examined the human clothing that he’d been given for his trip. The look was distinctly not his. Instead of his classic blue jeans and plaid or even a suit, it was drab black t-shirt and grey corduroy pants. He scowled at the soft fiber of the pants; it could’ve been a subtle insult. Regardless of the possible slight, he could appreciate the outfit’s strategic element. By keeping his old personal style from him, they were mitigating the nostalgia for his old life.

He glanced over to see that Dean was stripping down to get changed into his own set of human clothes. The moment was a bit disorienting. In many ways it echoed countless instances of them getting ready to work a job, though neither of them was putting on a fed suit. That seemed like a very long time ago, before Dean had died, back when things hadn’t been so damn confusing. Now they were something else entirely; Dean was a monster and he was… struggling, at the least.

It took a little effort to change his clothes while standing up. Normally, Sam tried to sit on the edge of his bed as much as possible, in order to avoid balancing on his bad leg while slipping on his pants. Despite the risk of falling, he didn’t lean against or sit down on any of the furniture. He’d involuntarily seen enough visions of Dean and Abaddon having sex in the room that he just assumed every surface was defiled.

When they were both done getting dressed, Dean walked over to a small wooden box that was resting on the dining table, beside where Sam had placed his leather clothes. He opened the box, revealing an inch-wide, silvery bracelet. Without explaining, he reached over and snapped it onto Sam’s wrist. There was an audible click as a hidden or magical clasp locked. He didn’t need to know the details of what had just happened; everything about it screamed ‘restraints.’ Evidently, someone still considered him a flight risk.

Upon closer inspection, the bracelet was engraved with ancient Abyssal. He wasn’t sure if something like that would’ve been one of Ruby’s designs. It seemed unlikely that they’d give him access to the person who created the one barrier to his escape. Well… even if it turned out to be the only thing preventing him from going home, he wasn’t sure what going back would entail. Castiel might be made to understand that he was just trying to make do, but nearly everyone else he knew would probably be swayed by gossip. Over all the games, at least fifteen hunters had witnessed him murdering other hunters with his bare hands. That didn’t bode well.

“It’s just while you’re upstairs.” The elder Winchester held up the band. “So I don’t have to hold your dick while you pee. The leash’ll keep you within two hundred feet of me, including when I port, so this’ll also be how you’re getting around.”

“Two hundred feet?” Sam couldn’t tell if that was an uncomfortably close proximity or if it was enough space for him to make a reckless play.

“I figure that’s enough room for you to explore and have a little fun while I’m working, without getting into too much trouble.” Dean sat down on the bed and started tying his shoes. “We’re gonna be scouting. That means a little moving around, without getting piled on top of each other like a fucking tour group. While we’re in Times Square, go grab a hot dog and stare in shop windows if you want. Just try not to be too weird, and keep your inner eye open or whatever.”

“We’re going to New York?”

“Stop number four.”

That told him the sorts of targets that Hell was planning on hitting in their initial round of attacks. They were going for large population centers. Of course they were; their goal was to terrorize a populace, not disable an opposing army. As far as Sam knew, the humans didn’t have an organized military force capable of fighting Hell, either defensively or offensively. What did Abaddon or Dean care about military targets? The humans were so far beneath them that all the targets were practically comparable.

Sam picked up one of the silver plates from the dining table and studied his reflection. His eyes weren’t obviously inhuman from far away, though they weren’t entirely inconspicuous either. He tried to focus on making them go back to normal, but only managed to reduce the yellow speckles a bit.

“Don’t worry,” Dean told him. “If anything, the civilians will just think you’re a goth in contacts. And if a hunter makes a move on you, just shout and I’ll save your ass.”

He glanced over at his brother. “Do you think there’ll be hunters around?”

Dean shook his head. “No more than any other day of the week. We’re the first recon team going out, so it’s not like we’re walking into week-old omens.” Fully ready, he stretched a bit, then collected his satchel. “You know how city hunters are. There’s bound to be a dozen, but they’re always spread thin. We’ll be in and out before anyone knows we’re there—or we’ll tear them into hunks of wet meat—either way, enjoy the hot dog.” 

Seeing that they were almost done with their one-on-one moment, Sam took the remainder of it to try and sow some discontent. “Why isn’t Abaddon coming with us? She’s our best fighter and she’d be able to make tactical decisions in real time.”

Dean gave a little shrug, not entirely thrilled with the situation. Sam had seen in his vision that his brother had been privately trying to get her to join them, but she’d turned down the suggestion. “She’s staying here to defend our home. That’s more important than any offensive mission.”

Sam nodded, a bit disappointed that Dean wasn’t more bitter about the matter. “I’ve just never seen the two of you fighting together. You’re like two of the scariest beasts in all existence, and you’re a couple. I’m just imagining the bloodiest tag-team of all time.”

The knight had an almost wistful look on his face. “Maybe someday you’ll get to see it, Sammy.” He clapped his little brother’s shoulder, then ushered him out.


	14. The Small Matter of Earth

Sam didn’t remember Earth being so unpleasant. It was hot, humid, and bright. The wind made the air touch his skin with too much intensity, too frequently. There was an odd static sound that seemed to ambiently carry bugs chirping or electricity buzzing. He’d hardly taken three breaths before his nose was running, enraged by the sudden exposure to pollen and other allergens for the first time in years. There was just so much going on compared to the clean quiet of Hell. Even the gravity felt more oppressive.

“God,” he groaned as he grabbed a nearby wall for stability. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Told you. It’s a trip,” Dean said as he slapped Sam’s back and walked past him. “Hurl if you need to, but keep up.”

The rest of the party followed their leader, though Ruby straggled a bit in case he was about to pass out.

A small amount of vomit really did back up in his throat, but he managed to stop it from turning into something more. The idea of getting a hot dog or any food was abruptly the last thing he wanted to do. He limped after them, hoping to avoid whatever would happen to him if he got too far away from Dean.

He didn’t recognize the city, but based on the conversations around them and the signage, they were somewhere in Germany or Austria. A picturesque river running through the middle of the city reflected the setting sun. As their little group crossed it via a pedestrian bridge, Sam was struck by a wave of dizziness. It had been so long since he’d been out in such a large open space. Seeing the surface of the water roughly forty feet below them and the vastness of the sky—he felt unstable. He stopped for a moment to lean against the rail of the bridge.

“Don’t you dare think about going for a swim,” Dean warned. He was standing with his arms crossed, having halted the six other demons who were eagerly escorting him.

“I’m just dizzy,” he muttered.

The knight stared at him thoughtfully, then pointed at Ruby, “Make sure he doesn’t die.” He turned around and kept walking. “We’ve got a schedule to keep to.”

Without asking for permission to touch him, Ruby hurried over to Sam and slung his right arm over her shoulder to act as support for the side with his bad leg. He felt incredibly embarrassed, taking her help on a mission in front of other respectable demons.

“I can walk,” he told her.

“Yeah, like a dumbass with vertigo.” She started marching him along after the rest of the group, though they maintained about fifty feet of distance. Once it was clear that they were out of earshot, she asked, “Are you actually okay? I can cover for you, but only if I know what’s happening.”

He watched the ground, both to make sure his feet were landing correctly, but also to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. “Everything feels too much and wrong. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“You acclimated to Hell, and human bodies aren’t great with sudden change,” she replied, then shook her head. “Guess you’re gonna have to add rehab to your escape plan.”

His lips thinned at her statement, but he didn’t argue with her. Her concern was valid. They might face that additional hiccup if they were to get free of Hell’s control. He’d be vulnerable to the environment of Earth for a little while, making evading capture that much harder. With a new motivation to get himself composed, he made more of an effort to take consistent and deliberate steps. “Just get me away from the water. Once I’m on solid ground—I’ll make it work.”

“You look like shit.”

“What’s new?”

The two of them hobbled to the opposite side of the bridge, then caught up to the rest of their party. The others were already discussing a collection of large, official-looking buildings that butted up on the river, several blocks from their current location. They were speaking in Abyssal, leaving Sam only able to pick up a quarter of the words. Occasionally, Ruby summarized a piece of information, but it was far from a comprehensive translation. The target was apparently a series of government facilities, including a small office that contained what was left of the Men of Letters in Central Europe. At the mention of Letters potentially being in the area, Sam raked his hair to better cover his eyes. Granted, it would be incredibly unlikely for them to notice one man’s unusual eye color from hundreds of meters away.

Several of the other scouts started walking the perimeter, investigating their specialties, leaving Dean, Ruby, and Sam to linger at a bench a safe distance from the target.

“Do you need to get closer?” Dean asked Ruby.

She pulled a crystal ball that was small enough to fit in her palm from her bag, then sat with her back to the buildings. “If I get any closer, even those idiots might notice me poking around their warding.” She dragged a fingertip across the orb’s surface in a fairly intricate pattern, then added, “Give me fifteen minutes per layer of warding. Knowing how little effort humans actually use—maybe an hour tops—”

Dean checked his watch. “You’ve got forty-five before their shift change. Then we’ve got bright-eyed assholes coming on duty. One way or another, you’re done before then. We don’t need somebody’s spidey-sense tingling and them switching up all their defenses tomorrow.”

“This isn’t really the kind of stuff I can speed up,” she advised, but when she saw his unmoved expression, she amended, “I need to concentrate.”

Leaving her to her work, Dean hooked Sam’s arm and guided him further down the riverfront walkway towards the buildings.

Sam asked, “Are you sure it’s a good idea for me to get this close?”

“We’ll stay two blocks away,” Dean assured him. “I mean, how many times did we investigate the random people outside the bunker, and this is a fucking city. I’m sure they get hundreds of people strolling around here everyday.” He idly kicked a rock, launching it nearly halfway across the river with his inhuman strength, then gave a grimace of false innocence. “God, this is boring. The other stops will be more fun, I swear. We just had to get this done while their guard is down.”

“Are we going after more Men of Letters bases?”

“Only two more. The rest are civilian targets, so there won’t need to be as much tip-toeing.”

The prospect of Hell targeting so many civilian targets was disheartening, making Sam’s stomach churn anew. He rubbed his face to discover that his skin was a bit clammy. 

“I need you to focus,” Dean told him. “You’re supposed to be putting your feelers out for bad mojo.”

“I’m trying. Let me just try to—” He waved his hands in a small gesture that looked like a failed attempt at kneading something together.

Dean signaled for him to go ahead, then stepped back a bit to give him some space. 

Triggering a vision wasn’t nearly as easy on Earth as it had been in the Dark Temple. Back downstairs, he had plenty of artifacts that were teeming with energy that was ready to share secrets with him. On Earth… there was a lot of empty space, big gaps where no energy or magic drifted. He hadn’t noticed how flat everything felt before. When he was younger, his visions had just ambushed him out of nowhere, triggered by some connection through Azazel. But now he wasn’t dependent on Azazel for his link to the supernatural. He was valid in his own right, whether he liked it or not.

Sam tried to open himself up to whatever insights he could get. Nothing happened for about a minute, but just when he was getting ready to give up in frustration, faint images and sounds flickered in his mind. He tried to push through the unimportant details, to find something valuable. There wasn’t much, but he did see a security guard going about his business. That was a relatively small piece of goodwill that might be offered to get Dean off his back.

“See anything?” Dean asked.

“A guard used an RFID badge and the access code was 69538.”

Dean took out his cell phone and jotted down the code. “Any idea which building or department?”

Sam threw his hands up in a helpless shrug. “I don’t read German. Forschung—whatever that is.”

Dean smiled at him. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna put all your romantic language skills to the test soon. We’re hitting the Vatican later.” 

* * *

For better or worse, the civilian targets were a less stressful experience than the ones that presented some small amount of risk. Sam hated the relief of knowing that there weren’t any Men of Letters bases or large weapons caches nearby, because it also meant that every person in the area was arguably an innocent bystander. It was selfish to take comfort in those moments, when he didn’t have to feel as scared of being caught—but as long as he was helpless to stop the hellion world tour, he might as well take whatever insignificant consolations he could get.

Ruby had indulged in stealing a bag of small bread-like rings in Istanbul. She hadn’t bothered to offer him any, but she didn’t complain when he took one of them. The spiced pastry gnawed a bit in his stomach with a sweetness that felt cloying, though he assumed that that was just him not being used to baked goods. And yet, it was probably the only nice aspect of stops two through six on their trip. Every other moment was him trying to avoid eye contact with strangers and metering out just enough vision-based intel to not alert Dean that he was withholding the most valuable bits.

While at non-military targets, Dean allowed him to wander a bit. He didn’t feel as though he had the freedom to just go interact with people or enjoy the sights, so he mostly took to finding some quiet place, as far from the crowds as possible. His brother seemed happy to let him hide and sulk in the shadows as long as he periodically checked in with updates.

Sam was sitting in a small, community park, watching a group of crows in a tree, when the silver bracelet started burning and tugging at him. Dean was on the move, and he was getting a warning, so that he might avoid being literally dragged down the sidewalk. He got up, then took a second to figure out which direction he was supposed to head. The magical band started drawing him east, in the vague direction of a large stadium that was being assessed as a target. 

He scowled at the thought of such a plentiful source of casualties, and nearly missed the woman walking down the sidewalk towards him. She came within a few inches of walking straight into a lamppost. It was almost as if she was looking through him, transfixed by something, because each time she pulled her eyes away from him, moments later she’d glance back, meeting him eye-to-eye— Shit.

He turned away from the woman and crossed to the other side of the street, hastily dodging a car as he went. Once he was half a block from her, he looked around for a reflective surface. In the side mirror of a parked van, he could see that his hazel irises were at least three-quarters covered in amber speckles. It didn’t exactly scream inhuman, though it was pretty unusual. He took a few deep breaths, trying to make it fade, but he didn’t feel as in control of his powers on Earth. Nothing happened. God, that was disheartening.

Sam hurried up another block trying to gain some slack on his leash, then went into a convenience store. He made his way to the aisle with sunglasses, avoiding eye contact with everyone as he walked. The products on the shelves were jarringly colorful compared to Hell. Pictures of smiling children were on the packaging for the toys. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen children close up—their scouting group was mostly visiting locations around dusk or after dark, leaving the streets largely occupied by adults. Even the smell was disturbing; the intense chemical scent of various cleaning products made him feel a bit nauseous.

When he found an inconspicuous enough pair of sunglasses, he plucked them from the rack and tore the security tag from them. It wasn’t like he had money. Anyway, he’d only been partially against stealing before Hell. Now, in the grand scheme of things, he could hardly give a fuck about petty, human crimes. He slipped the glasses into his pocket before heading for the exit.

“Hey! Stop there!” shouted an employee who ran after him.

Without turning towards him, Sam lunged sideways, pushing off with his good leg, suddenly closing the last few strides. He hit the man in the chest, knocking him backwards into a cardboard display of potato chips.

“They’re $15 glasses. Don’t get up,” Sam told him. When he saw the guy start to move, he looked at him, meeting his eyes. The employee froze, either thrown by Sam’s unusually yellow eyes or seeing the seriousness written on his face. “Good.”

As soon as he was outside, he put on the sunglasses and hurried away from the store to go find the safety of the rest of his group. He noticed a few of the other demon scouts, but found his brother down an alley by a dumpster.

Dean nudged a body down a manhole with his foot, then repositioned the heavy metal cover. He spotted Sam over his shoulder, but went back to examining the ground for evidence. They were supposed to avoid things that might draw too much attention to the area around their targets, such as murdering people.

“Nice shades, Elwood,” the knight commented. He stared at a small trail of blood left by the corpse, then shrugged and pulled out his dick. While peeing on the evidence to dilute it and help it down the manhole, he observed, “Gotta love homeless people. A hundred bucks’ll buy you all the intel you want and no missing persons report.”

Sam didn’t react. It wasn’t worth trying to persuade his brother that it was too dangerous. Clearly, the guy was setting his own comfort level.

“I stole the glasses and attacked a shopkeeper a couple blocks over,” he warned him, hoping that that’d be sufficient reason for them to leave. Maybe that was an approach? He could postpone the strikes of the upcoming locations by making such an awkward scene that they had no choice but to leave— Knowing his luck, he’d just be sent back downstairs early.

“Murder the guy?” Dean asked, referring to the shopkeeper.

“I thought we were trying to avoid that sort of thing.”

“A little murder never killed anyone.” Dean smiled broadly at his own joke. “Just try not to make it a full-blown spree. Now’s not the time for your pretty picture to make the nightly news.” He patted Sam’s face as he walked by, leaving a bit of cold liquid on his cheek. 

Sam didn’t know whether he hoped it was urine or blood.

* * *

By Sam’s best guess, they were on the last stop of their reconnaissance tour. Despite his best efforts to figure out a way of subtly sneaking away, he hadn’t had any bright ideas. But with time running out, he even humored bad ideas.

He stood at the bus stop, staring at the open door while the bus driver yelled at him to be more decisive, but his magical bracelet wouldn’t budge. When he struggled against it, it began burning. Somehow the fucking thing knew. In his frustration, he flipped off the agitated public transit employee before retreating a few steps from the covered bench. He sat down in the damp grass, feeling thoroughly defeated, and clutched his wrist. With technology that was able to discern when he was considering using mass transit, cutting his hand off seemed like a futile idea.

“Come on.” He looked up to see Ruby standing over him. “Keep it together.” She offered him a hand up. “You’re supposed to be one of the most powerful monsters on this plane. Stop sitting in the dirt.”

He took her hand, pulling himself up, then wiped off his pants. “I’m not a monster.”

She glanced around to make sure that the rest of the group wasn’t watching them, then touched his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “You are a partially-demonic psychic and advisor to the Queen of Hell. You might not hate the humans, but to them you're one of the villains. And the real villains think you’re one of the villains, so unless you’re about to do something really nuts, you’re sitting pretty firmly not in the hero category.”

He closed his eyes, then let out a long sigh. She had a point. Over the years he’d lost his ability to make positive change, and to be perfectly honest that had made it less of a priority for him. His life had been about survival. It had a sort of pragmatism and clarity to it. Even then, seeing the helpless humans stumbling through their ignorant little lives, he couldn’t help but think of preventing the attacks on Earth as part of a greater attempt for him to escape and return to something vaguely resembling his old life. He could see how his motivations were connected and knew that something had changed in him since before his capture, but that didn’t make him wrong now. It made him unsympathetic, but not wrong. He could shoulder the burden of being regarded as a monster, as long as he was actually being reasonable. His captors didn’t know him, and the humans didn’t know anything.

He double-checked to make sure that Dean was still off scouting the nearby tourist trap, then told Ruby, “Cas can find Crowley if he knows that he needs to be looking for demonic omens hiding in angelic frequencies. Maybe we can’t do much to stop Abaddon and Dean on our own, but if we can get Crowley’s demons allied with Heaven…. Maybe they’ll be able to move on Hell. If we get word to them that we’re on their side—”

“Sam,” she interrupted. “We’ve got what, fifteen minutes here and there, to pull something out of our asses, while Dean isn’t riding said asses, and we don’t have shit in the way of magical resources. I only have supplies for short range scrying spells. What do you suggest we do?”

He chewed his lower lip as he started mentally ticking through even the most primitive means of communication. Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t remember Castiel’s phone number. From his perspective it’d been roughly eight years since he’d made a phone call at all. He tried praying to Castiel, but he had no idea if the message was getting through. An unpleasant thought crossed his mind.

“Can angels hear prayers from demons?” he asked Ruby.

She stared at him with an almost pitying expression. “I don’t think so. Did you get sent to voicemail?”

“It doesn’t feel like it used to.” He couldn’t tell if he was metaphysically corrupted or if the problem was more psychological. Before, not only was he more human, he also had more faith. He rubbed his face. “We need to figure something out.”

“We didn’t have time to get ready,” she replied. “Next time, I can try to get a whisper spell ready. It can’t be used across planes, but I might be able to prepare it in my lab and store the charge in my body for the planar jump.”

“Next time?” he sighed. “Abaddon wants to move on Earth as soon as possible. We aren’t gonna come back before the war breaks out, and then what? It’s gonna be chaos and we won’t have anywhere to go.”

She looked over at him with a worn expression that matched his mood. “At a certain point, our piddly lives aren’t gonna count for shit to the good guys, no matter how much you want to kiss ass. I know you want to escape—I want to too—but in all of Earth and Heaven, there’s only one angel that  _ maybe _ still believes in you.”

“We could be valuable if we can defect. If we can arrange protection for us once we’re on Earth—Castiel could assemble some angels or Crowley come be ready with the warding magic….” He was grasping at straws that were multiple steps ahead of where they stood. First and foremost, they needed to get some sort of message to Castiel. 

Sam paced for a while brooding on the problem until he saw a woman wearing a gold crucifix necklace walk by. He hardly took his eyes off the human while quickly reaching into Ruby’s purse, grabbing the crystal ball, then putting it in her hands. “Keep watch for Dean,” he told Ruby. “I gotta try something.”

He followed the woman around the corner. When she wasn’t looking, he took off the sunglasses and grabbed her. He pinned her to the brick wall and covered her mouth so that she couldn’t scream. It took a little effort to not reflexively squeeze her throat, yet he stopped himself in time. His hand muffled her cries, but the way she was transfixed with horror, he was sure that he had her attention.

“Do what I say and I won’t hurt you.” His words came out a bit more hostile than he’d been planning, but he didn’t really care. He didn’t have much time to listen to her annoying whimpering. “All I need is for you to say a prayer, okay? Nod if you can do that.”

It took her a moment to process the bizarre request, but she eventually nodded.

“You’re gonna repeat after me and mean it,” he instructed her. He didn’t trust some terrified civilian enough to let her do it all in her head. “Dear Castiel—” He waited a beat until he heard her muffled echo of his prayer. “—Sam is alive and a prisoner of Dean and Abaddon’s. They are trying to find Crowley, but don’t know that angels can detect his warding. Hell is going to attack Earth—” The woman hesitated to repeat such an insane statement, but continued when he narrowed his eyes at her. “—Find Crowley and rally Heaven. Sam is ready to help you from the inside, but he can’t do it alone. You only have a few days to stop it.”

When she was done repeating the prayer, Sam told her, “I know you think I’m crazy, but for your own safety, get out of San Francisco and stay away for the next week.” Rather than risk her screaming as soon as he let go of her, he pinched the sides of her throat until she passed out, then lowered her to the ground.

He looked up to see Ruby standing twenty feet away, studying her crystal ball while keeping watch for more immediate threats. She gestured for him to hurry up, so he quickly limped over to her, then they made their way away from the unconscious woman as fast as possible. 

They met up with the rest of the group just as one of the scouts started pointing out a nearby building of interest. The abandoned-looking Victorian style three-story house had been tagged with some sort of weak spellcraft that was visible with demonic black eyes. It wasn’t really the sort of thing that would justify random investigation, but the building’s proximity to their target caused it to warrant a little peek. When their party approached it, Sam froze as the vision flickered into his mind. 

_ There was a trap set up in the house’s entryway. He saw three of the scouts and Ruby become stuck in the devil’s trap hidden below a large antique rug. Dean managed to avoid the trap and began fighting a group of hunters as they poured into the room. Sam was more or less unable to escape even in the chaos thanks to his metal bracelet tying him to the general area. When he saw a hunter go after Ruby, Sam ran forward, tackling the man. He didn’t have a weapon, so he just jabbed him hard in the throat and fought him for the angel blade while pinning him to the ground. He grabbed the blade, slit the hunter’s throat, then used the weapon to break the border of the devil’s trap, freeing the others. _

“Wait,” Sam told the group, stopping them instantly. “There’s a trap in there.”

Dean turned around and beamed happily at his brother. “What and how many?”

“Hunters. Eight.” Sam felt a bit disgusted with himself. “There’s a devil’s trap inside the entryway.”

Dean gestured for their companions to come close, then said, “Block the exits.” When they disappeared, he placed an arm around Sam. “See. It’s just like the old days. We’re a team.”

Sam didn’t dare argue that those were innocent people in there. Not only would that potentially out his conflicted loyalties, it also wasn’t entirely sound. Rationally, it was very much like the old days, only the brothers had switched affiliations. By now he knew better than to argue against moral relativism with Dean.

“I’ll be right back,” the knight said before disappearing.

Ruby watched Sam for a moment, then quietly asked, “Would they have killed all of us?”

“No,” he replied. “If it was all of us I would’ve let it happen.”

She didn’t ask what had made him decide to warn them. He wasn’t entirely sure. In the vision, he’d snapped when she’d been in danger; he’d killed that hunter to save her. He didn’t want such an unsettling scenario to play out, so he’d stopped it from occurring. Now it seemed that all of the hunters would die because he didn’t want to find out if he would risk his life to defend Ruby. It all felt incredibly screwed up, not the least because he didn’t regret his decision.

Dean reappeared with a large gasoline jug in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. One of his eyebrows rose playfully as he silently poured the gasoline along the bottom of the front door. When he was done, he uncorked the whiskey, took a few sips, then held it out to his brother. When Sam wordlessly declined, he said, “Your loss.”

The knight pulled a lighter from his pocket, lit it, then tossed it at the front door, igniting the ample supply of accelerant. He watched through the windows as the flames quickly spread throughout the first floor, then leaned against a nearby bannister to wait. 

The eight hunters inside the old, wooden building didn’t stand a chance. In the distance, the screams and the sound of breaking windows hinted at people desperately trying to escape, only to be met by waiting demons, tasked with keeping them inside to be burnt to death. One hunter actually jumped from a second story window above them, but Dean grabbed him. He threw him down and used the bottom of the whiskey bottle to bludgeon the man until his skull was crushed against the concrete steps.

Blood mixed with tiny fragments of bone and brain matter dribbled down the bottle as Dean took another sip. When the screaming had finally stopped, he walked over to Sam. “Baby brother, you’re indispensable.” He patted Sam’s cheek a couple times before giving him a peck on the other one and whispering, “You should really smile more.”

* * *

Hell was Hell… and not really in a bad way. It was quiet, clean, and predictable. With a few very notable exceptions, people treated Sam with respect. Of course there were problems: he was a prisoner and he lived in constant fear that Abaddon might start feeling threatened by the rumors that he was a prince of Hell—though, in the Abyss, he was better able to keep his eye color under control.

The fact that he didn’t feel miserable upon returning to Hell stirred a lot of confusing emotions. It would’ve been better if the trip to Earth had been some profound relief. In actuality, going back had been so painful that it gave the prospect of escaping someday a slightly bittersweet quality.

For months, he dwelled on those unpleasant feelings while waiting for some sign that Castiel had gotten his message. At each tactical meeting, he listened closely for any mention of Castiel, Heaven, or Crowley, but nothing seemed to come of it. Then things changed.

Sam arrived at the throne room for the routine meeting, but Abaddon wasn’t there. Dean stood in his usual spot, beside the throne.

“Our forces struck five days ago,” the knight announced. “Estimates place their casualties at eight million, including three Men of Letters bases.”

The news came through like static, some horrible thing that Sam’s brain struggled to decipher. He’d been expecting more preliminary meetings to settle various details, but apparently the final decisions had gone to a smaller council of just the military advisers. They’d done it. Those idiots had actually done it.

He tried to subtly glance around the room to see the reactions of everyone else. Several of the more militaristic advisors seemed completely unfazed by the news, likely having been involved in the lead-up to the attack itself. A few of the more domestic demons were visibly surprised; Cecily actually raised her hand to her mouth, but quickly converted it into a caricature of holding one’s chin while nodding thoughtfully— At least he wasn’t the only one who thought this was a bad idea, even if they had differing reasons. He didn’t want to lose the sanctity of Earth, whereas the Crossroads demon was probably imagining the economic disaster that would befall Hell in some number of years.

Dean continued, “The queen decided to go assess the damage herself, and has left me in charge in her absence.” He rested his arm on the throne back as he glanced at everyone in the room. “Any questions?”

Sam had been hoping to exploit things between the couple by making Abaddon worry about Dean’s ambition, but when push came to shove, Abaddon had trusted her lover. Sam couldn’t even whisper doubts in anyone’s ear—Dean was so clearly devoted that he wouldn’t listen—whereas there had at least been a glimmer of hope that Abaddon’s self-interest would be their undoing, but that was suddenly looking like a futile line of thinking. Dean wasn’t even showing the slightest interest in sitting on the throne. It was infuriating just how loyal the guy was being.

In as calm a voice as he could manage, Sam asked, “Have we claimed responsibility? Do they know it was Hell?”

“Yes.” Dean’s lips curled into a smile. “There’s some resistance among the humans to accept that this is really happening, but we’re sending soldiers to go make examples across the board. Given enough sightings of smoke clouds and undying, monstrously strong fiends, the civilians will come around. We will….”

Sam didn’t even hear the end of his brother’s terrifying speech. All he could think about was that his chance was slipping away. It was as if the war was tearing a chasm between humans and demons, and he was on the wrong side of it. There wasn’t even a prerequisite of his status as the queen’s aide getting out. If the human civilians knew to fear or hate demons, they would take one look at his eyes and know what he was. Some of the more informed humans, like hunters, might recognize the significance of his yellow irises, and make him a high-value target. He couldn’t even switch his eyes off, like a real demon.

His hope of getting free had been destroyed with such a monumental move. He had no idea if his message had reached Castiel, but even if it had, the prospect of the lone angel, and whatever rag-tag allies he could summon, being able to mount an assault on Hell during an active war—it was insanely improbable. Now, everyone on Earth had their hands full and Hell’s defenses would be up. He was stuck.

After the meeting, as everyone was leaving the throne room, Sam turned to see Ruby, watching him with a reserved expression on her face. She knew, just as well as him, all the implications of the conflict. Their window for escape was closing and arguably already lost. He felt so defeated; all he wanted to do was curl up in bed with her and stay there until the war was over.

She walked over to the small table beside the throne, which held Abaddon’s decanter of wine and two crystal goblets. With a respectful little bow, she gestured to the wine, then asked Dean, “Do you think she’d mind if we have a drink?”

The knight considered the request for a moment before unstopping the bottle and pouring two glasses. Dean handed one to Ruby and held out the other goblet to Sam while keeping the remainder of the bottle for himself. “Come on, Sammy.”

Sam slowly approached them, then accepted the glass.

“To Hell.” Dean raised the bottle in a toast. “And glory.”

Sam and Ruby lifted their glasses. The wine tasted bitter, but that could’ve been more a reflection on his mood. Regardless of the flavor, he fully intended on getting drunk.

“You know,” Ruby added. “It’s amazing to think that the three of us could end up here.” She glanced up at Sam briefly before raising her glass in another toast. “To the underdogs.”


	15. The Life of Apathy

Sam was standing in front of the altar in his temple, diligently sorting through a bag of human teeth, trying to find twenty of a uniform size and condition. He ignored the light rubbing sensation at his ankles until he was done with step one. After discarding the inferior teeth, he glanced down at his guest.

A white, six-week-old lamb was huddled and trembling at his feet. He’d attempted to let it roam the temple while he was working, but the thing appeared to be scared of the darkness. It had gravitated to him in its fear. 

Sam picked up the lamb and held it in his arms for a moment. He pet its head, rubbing the thing’s soft, floppy ears. For some reason, he thought that it might find the act comforting and therefore stop making noise, but the lamb didn’t seem appeased. It was undoubtedly frightened, taken from its home and brought to Hell itself. The little cries, likely for its mom or whatever lost sense of peace that cattle were capable of feeling, didn’t stop. 

He didn’t know enough details about the anatomy of a lamb; he just knew the details necessary for the ritual. His large hand gripped the lamb’s skull. It bleated and jerked, trying to kick at him, but with a quick twist of his wrist, it turned still and silent. He dropped it on the altar, then moved onto the next item on his list: drawing a fairly elaborate sigil onto a parchment scroll.

When he unfurled the parchment, the edges kept curling up, limited his workspace. The bowlful of teeth weighed down one corner well enough. For the other side, he dragged the lamb a bit closer to anchor it. As he worked, he heard the temple door open.

He didn’t need to look up know it was Ruby. Unlike the guards, she never knocked to announce her presence, though he couldn’t help but notice that she usually waited half a beat between her steps that echoed down the stone entryway. He liked to think that it was her giving him a moment to compose himself if needed—either that or she was summoning her courage to enter the oppressive lair. 

When she was at his elbow, he finally looked over to acknowledge her presence. She didn’t bother opening her leather-bound notebook, but she had her pen at the ready to jot down any important information that she was apparently there to gather.

“You look like you’re here on business,” he commented.

“I have a deadline in three hours; hardly time enough for you to whisper sweet nothings in my pussy.” Ruby gave him a feline grin, knowing perfectly well that he wasn’t in a generous enough mood for going down on her to even be on the table.  “We’re about to try an abjuration spell. Have you seen anything that might cause a problem?”

“Nothing affecting that,” he replied  while turning his attention back to the scroll he was working on.  “But I could miss things.”

“I know your usual disclaimer. With how often you verbally cover your ass they really should’ve given you the Crossroads.”  She set her notebook down on the altar, then leaned casually against it.  “Imagine a psychic running the entire contracts division of Hell.”

Sam glared at her. He had no interest in placing a target on his back. That included actively avoiding any additional cultural or political power. Similarly, he was still attentively trying to avoid all things princely.  He even tried to keep his eyes in check, moderating the amount of yellow  to feed into the bastard narrative .

It’d been years since the last time he’d been beaten within an inch of his life, and slightly less since he sincerely feared execution. Maybe he still was smacked around periodically for fun or to remind him who was boss, but for the most part he was left in… not peace, as that would require contentment. He’d adapted to survive in the hostile environment. For the most part he could even anticipate Dean’s erratic behavior. He was an academic, who carefully metered expectations of his abilities, in order to avoid being dragged into the war as a potentially devastating weapon.  The last thing he needed was to let everyone know what he was actually capable of.

Aside from researching, Ruby was probably the only thing in his life that helped distract from his despair, which he’d  admittedly gone partially numb to. She would sometimes share her work with him, giving him a taste of variety under the pretense of serving the realm. They were allowed to have their sexual relationship, but the two of them had an unspoken understanding that getting too close was a dangerous mistake. If he slipped up and was seen being unduly affectionate toward her, it might throw their loyalties into question. Man couldn’t serve two masters, and Dean would know which would win in a contest between love and Hell—not that he loved Ruby. That would be absurd.

Ruby placed a finger on the jaw of the dead lamb. She opened its mouth like a ventriloquist dummy while doing an impression of bleating. A small smirk formed on her lips as she said, “Do you remember ‘The Song That Never Ends?’ And people say we have the worst forms of torture.”

“Careful with it,” he warned her, worried that she might accidentally mess up one of his ritual components. It had taken four days to get a sacrifice that checked all the boxes. Further delays might draw Dean’s attention, earning him a literal crack of the whip.

She grabbed the lamb’s tiny head and wiggled it around. The weight of the body hardly affected the movement as the neck was clearly broken. “Yeah. You were real gentle with this one,” she commented as she dropped the head back down onto the stone.

Sam grabbed her wrist and shoved her backwards away from his work. She stumbled slightly, but didn’t fall down. He glared at her while asking, “Is there some other reason you’re here? We’ve both got work to do.”

She leaned in closer to him, then whispered, “Darby told me his team was given about thirty hunters to use as guinea pigs.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. That didn’t sound terribly noteworthy. “And?”

“I figure they might be a source of intel—word from the ground on Earth from people who hopefully have some idea what they’re talking about. He’ll give me a couple if he has any leftovers.” The corner of her mouth curled up. In a whisper she said, “Maybe you could give them the bad touch and feel out some glimpses?”

Sam lightly rapped his fingers against the altar as he considered the suggestion. There probably wasn’t much to be gained while the two of them were still without a sound escape plan, but there was something appealing in getting any information he could. They’d have to be careful. Nobody else knew that his visions could be backwards looking. If Abaddon found out about that, he’d likely end up being assigned to assist in various high-level interrogations. He didn’t have a problem with getting his hands dirty if the occasion called for it, but he didn’t want all of his cards laid face-up on the table.

“Can we do it discreetly?” he asked quietly.

“You could help me pick them apart,” she replied in a normal voice. “Since you know about hunter spells and wards.”

“Just let me know where and when.”

“It’s a date.” She leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek, then bit his earlobe.

He clenched his teeth and gripped the altar, resisting the urge to sweep the stone slab’s contents to the floor, then toss her onto it. They’d both been so busy with projects that they hadn’t had sex in a few weeks. He didn’t know about her, but he could definitely use a pressure release—and yet they both had imminent deadlines.

“Go finish your abjuration spell,” he told her.

Ruby winked at him, then picked up her notebook and pen. “Have fun with Bambi.” She turned and started to leave.

“Bambi was a deer,” he shouted after her.

“Like either of us give a fuck,” she replied without looking back, flipping him off over her shoulder as she walking out of his temple.

He tried to realign the lamb’s head so that it wasn’t visibly mangled. The impulse to fix it felt silly. The thing was dead and he was by himself; he knew perfectly well what he’d done. For a moment, he assumed that he’d made the adjustment out of shame, but that thought struck him as insincere. He used to feel shame about that sort of thing, and some voice from long ago told him that that was the right reaction, but he didn’t feel it.

Back when he’d lived on Earth, he had periodically killed animals for spells. It had been an unpleasant business back then, though in hindsight he couldn’t help but wonder how much of his guilt had stemmed from the act and how much had come from the knowledge that society frowned upon such violence. Supposedly, hurting animals was symptomatic of something far more menacing. Well, he had become something that truly would unnerve the grade school teacher he’d mistakenly told about killing a bunny. He had been innocently helping his dad on a hunt. Now he wasn’t so innocent and the dead lamb before him barely registered on the scale against all the violence he’d been a party to.

Staring at the little body, he didn’t feel remorse or much of anything at all. It was a frail, helpless thing in a cruel reality, and he’d needed it. The fact that he had made its death relatively quick and painless was something of a mercy… but just as remorse would require shame, mercy would require some sympathy, and honestly, he didn’t really care. He was going through the motions, habits built over a lifetime as a human. Those impulses were inapplicable at best, but more likely, they’d always been so foolish. There had always been evil and powerful forces taking advantage of those who’d placed false limitations on themselves; he’d just been dumb enough to think that he could stand a chance while fighting with one hand tied behind his back. He wouldn’t let such lesser creatures and feelings make him weak. Never again.

Maybe Hell wasn’t the realm of flame that humans often imagined, but it certainly was a forge. It had made him stronger, and yet, there was still a profound unease. Sam took a moment to look around his domain. He was standing in an archive of the collective wisdom of Hell, and he couldn’t think of a single carving he wanted to tap. There weren’t any visions or lessons to be gleaned, or at least none that would  help him achieve some better outcome for this idiotic war and its impact on his life.

Morale among  the majority of  demons had been high since the first attacks on Earth had occurred two years earlier. It was generally regarded somewhere on the scale of ‘a good bit of fun’ to long overdue recognition. There had been roughly a hundred and fifty different attacks, subjectively happening every four days, but thanks to the time conversion, the humans were experiencing it as more than one every hour.

His thicker skin had become necessary over the years, but it was so important now because in many ways, Sam felt defeated. Everything was moving beyond his control. The only thing he had to hope for was that some miracle might happen, that the cavalry might come after all. But that sliver of hope only existed as a rational possibility, however improbable, that he only ever  _ felt _ in his dreams. He only felt hopeful during those rare dreams that weren’t plagued by visions or violent memories—where Castiel would lead an assault on the throne room, then help Ruby and him escape. Sometimes they went to a new bunker and joined the resistance; other times, he and Ruby would retire to a small, tropical island while the world burned. Noble missions or hedonistic embrace of the end times, he didn’t sweat the morality or practicality of dreams.

Escape was a fantasy, one that he was just barely human enough to hold onto. The fact was that he was trapped. Castiel would never come. He would spend the rest of his life telling fortunes and trying to keep his head down. With a long sigh, he went back to drawing out the sigil on the parchment scroll.

* * *

_ Castiel was barely conscious, lying on the floor of the throne room. His naked body was branded repeatedly with sigils of Abyssal design. Both of his wrists were bound to the front of his chest by metal cuffs, which were connected by a U-shaped bar that pierced through his ribs, exiting out his back, and wrapped around his spine. _

_ Dean stood over him, playfully stepping on the angel’s chest, prodding the damaged flesh around the large wounds. He looked down at his old friend with more fondness than disappointment, but when he turned back to Abaddon, he was elated. _

_ Abaddon was seated in her throne, examining the bloody and trussed Crowley. The former King of Hell was crumpled, limbs having collapsed under his own weight, splintered bones poking through the skin in multiple places. Scattered about the room were half a dozen other bound and either injured or dead prisoners, though they were hardly noticed compared to the real prizes. _

_ “Aren’t you the odd couple?” Abaddon asked, while sipping a glass of wine. _

_ Dean nodded, then told Castiel, “Last I heard, you were pretty mad about the whole Crowley-leading-me-to-my-death-and-damnation thing.” _

_ “The en-emy—” Castiel gasped with a rattling wheeze. “—of my en—” _

_ “Nope.” Dean cut him off. “When did that ever work out for you, Cas? Least of all, with Crowley.” He got down on his hands and knees, straddling the wounded angel. His fingers gently traced Castiel’s cheekbone, then fixed a few stray hairs. “I know you’re slow. I never wanted you for your head—well, not that sort of head.” A little grin formed on his face at his own joke, then he refocused. “Yeah, maybe you make dumb mistakes over and over again, but for even you to be that stupid is something. So why did you hook up with Crowley?” _

_ “You took my kingdom,” growled the former king. “Then you went after Earth. You made us desperate; what do you expect? When the writing was on the wall, I went to your little underground clubhouse to get help—“ _

_ “He’s lying,” moaned one of the other prisoners through a set of crushed sinuses. Abaddon gestured to two guards to bring the man forward. He was dragged closer, then dropped to the floor in front of the queen. _

_ “Do tell,” Abaddon instructed. _

_ The prisoner cowered before her and explained, “The angel found us. Some woman told him how to find us. She said that there were traitors in Hell, warning about the invasion. The angel found us the day before Hell moved on Earth.” _

_ Abaddon stood up and approached Crowley. She gripped his chest so tightly that her fingers dug into his flesh, snapping ribs and piercing his lungs. With perfect ease, she lifted him one-handed, until his feet dangled off the ground.  _

_ “This is the part where you make a deal to save your own ass.” She snarled, “Live to fight another day;  _ _ that’s your motto, isn’t it?  _ _ Tell us who the traitors are  _ _ and we’ll let you live _ _ .” _

_ “Please,” the Crossroads demon scoffed, with little care for the blood pouring from his injuries. “We all know I was dead the moment your dogs dug into my bloody heel. I’m not telling you a thing.” _

_ Dean looked between Castiel and Crowley, evaluating their resolve. His normal playful expression turned to seething anger. He stared at Crowley with an intensity that nearly eviscerated him and hissed, “You’re such a pathetic fucking sentimentalist.” He turned to the senior guards. “Get Sam and Ruby. They’re the traitors.” _

* * *

Sam had to brace himself against the temple altar so that he wouldn’t collapse. His whole body was trembling as his mind ran over the vision again and again, hoping that there was some mistake. But there wasn’t any doubting what he saw; the only question was when Abaddon and Dean would figure out that they had tried to contact Castiel on Earth. They were disloyal. How soon would they come for him and Ruby?

Castiel and Crowley had been his last feeble chance to escape, and now he knew that they’d be captured. He couldn’t think of how to prevent it. There hadn’t been any insights in his vision about how they’d been found, and he didn’t have any significant influence on the actions taken on Earth. He might be able to feed Abaddon a false vision, but he had no clue what to say that might throw Hell off of his would-be allies’ trail. He couldn’t save them. All he could do was focus on himself and Ruby.

For years, he and Ruby had been hesitant to make any risky plays, for fear that a slip-up would cost them everything. Well, everything was about to be torn out from under them regardless. It was time to act, and quickly, before they lost the element of surprise.

His gaze drifted to  the dead lamb , resting a couple feet away on the altar.  One of its eyes was leaking a few drops of blood from a tear duct, having been handled too roughly by Ruby. The sight of the red liquid gave him pause. The surreal calm of epiphany washed over him. He’d been patiently fighting for his survival with one hand tied behind his back for over a decade.  He hadn’t just been handicapped by his humanity; he’d been fighting his full potential. It had made sense to avoid drinking blood back when there was a chance he’d been able to return to some form of normalcy, but things had changed. He’d had something to hold onto, hope that there might be a way back… but he was wrong. He had no hope and nothing to lose. 

For so many years, he’d been rejecting the idea of drinking demon blood because it would cost him the last ounce of his humanity. But they’d already taken it from him. Losing his fantasy of escape had merely awoken him to that fact.

To his surprise, he barely cared. What good was humanity after all? Its virtue had done nothing to protect him. It had only managed to pain him, over and over again. This was Hell. There was no good man here. Every one of them inevitably burned in the fire, fueled by their own weakness and guilt. He was a pragmatist in a land of absurdity, but he’d learned to speak its language and bow to their customs. His captors had made sure of that. Now it was his turn to show them all what he’d learned.

“Guard, come here for a moment,” Sam called out, drawing the lone sentinel in the hallway. He pointed at the lamb’s body. “I need a few of its organs. Cut them out for me.”

Per the queen’s edict, he was still forbidden from wielding a weapon, but that didn’t prevent him from routinely asking a guard to do a bit of butchering for him. Perfectly accustomed to such requests, the guard walked over, drawing his knife, then turned his attention to the lamb carcass lying atop the altar. Like so many times before, Sam moved up close to him, to show the guard what was needed. The guards always appreciated his help, guiding them through delicate procedures in such a dark environment.

“This first cut needs to be precise,” Sam said, then reached over the guard’s arm to point at a specific spot on the lamb’s chest. “Do a sweeping motion, like this.” He took the guard’s hand and gently guided it in a flicking arc. Suddenly, at the same moment, he pulled the guard’s hand back and shoved the man’s neck forward onto the blade. The startled guard yanked the knife from his throat, but Sam was already on him.

For the briefest moment he hesitated as the crimson liquid poured down the man’s chest. One taste and the addiction would take him again, in all probability for the rest of his life. He truly would become a monster— That’s what they’d wanted: to make him irredeemable. That’s exactly what they’d done. In the end, it hadn’t been the torture or the violence. It hadn’t been an appeal to his reason, the destruction of his support, or the obsession with his demonic nature. The thing that had done it was them fucking up. They had finally taken too much, and idiotically, from a man who could see the future. Now was the time to get ahead of the situation.

He sunk his teeth into the guard and drank. The warm, red liquid tasted incredible.  It was that long-lost, heavenly combination of sweet and smoky with a delicate mineral quality. He’d nearly forgotten the richness of it. It was hard to imagine how it had made him sick the first few times he’d tasted it. What a fool he’d been. His mind began racing as old memories clicked together, bringing all the little tricks back to the forefront of his brain. The guard’s body suddenly felt light. For a moment he worried that he’d drained him already, but then Sam realized that he was using his telekinesis to help hold the demon up. When he was done, he tossed the body aside and walked out the door holding the knife.


	16. The Knight & the Prince

Dean was sitting at Abaddon’s feet as she sat on the throne. His left arm was draped on her armrest, while his right hand slid up her thigh beneath her dress. Her fingers pet his head, teasing and playing with his hair.

The assault on Earth was going better than expected, with little in the way of noteworthy opposition. The humans could barely comprehend what was happening, let alone figure out a way of combating them. Heaven was understandably upset, but with so few angels in such a miserable condition, the Heavenly Host had decided to focus on defending their own borders, leaving the mortal world to slowly succumb. Before long, Hell’s forces would finish off the last of the seasoned hunters and Men and Women of Letters. Then the Earth would be truly ripe.

He couldn’t wait for that day to come. Hell’s supremacy would be unquestionable, and Abaddon’s dominion a thing of beauty. He wanted to give that to her. If he had to kill eight billion people with his bare hands to secure for her the height of power and glory, he’d spend the next thousand years doing just that. But they wouldn’t need to wait so long, and he wouldn’t have to do it alone. By the latest projections, all the significant threats of Earth would be eliminated in a few weeks. After that, when their home wasn’t in need of a constant defender, he would take a trip with Abaddon. 

For the first time in so long, the two of them could go to Earth together. They could indulge themselves by tearing that silly world apart. He wanted to go back to the ruins of the mausoleum where he’d first seen her with his new eyes and fuck her on the rubble. He wanted to fight beside her, to marvel at her artistry.

She knew about all his aspirations for their future; they would often lie in bed together, naked bodies intertwined, him whispering his wishes in her ear. Now, sitting in the throne room, the way she ran her fingers through his hair while watching him with a knowing, confident smile—they were so damn close to having it all. He slid his hand further up her leg, between her thighs. Below her dress, she spread her legs ever so slightly, as the throne room’s doors opened. Dean didn’t stop playing with her just because some courier had arrived with a report. She would tell him to stop if she so decided; he couldn’t care less about the comfort or opinions of anyone else.

“I hope this is important,” the queen told the soldier.

“Yes, your highness,” the courier assured her, as his ears turned a bit pink at the sight of Dean’s arm up her skirt. “We’ve captured Crowley.”

It took nearly all of Dean’s willpower to not pick Abaddon up, spin her around, and kiss her at that delightful news. They’d been waiting so long for this day. He beamed up at her, then slid two fingers into her.

“That’s wonderful news,” she hummed, then instructed the soldier, “Bring him here.” She shifted slightly at Dean’s touch and chewed her lower lip.

“Yes, your highness.” The courier bowed, then added, “There’s one more thing. He was with a dozen followers and… an angel.”

Dean’s lips curled into a broad grin. “Trench coat, dark hair, blue eyes, no sense of humor?”

“I believe so, sir.”

Abaddon took his free hand in hers. “Your old flame, Pet?”

“Barely a flicker.” He kissed the back of her hand as he massaged her, faster than before. “But I think we’re gonna have a fun time with him.”

Abaddon turned her attention to the soldier. “Bring them here. We have questions.”

Dean noticed the pink glow forming in her cheeks. She was pure magnificence in her pleasure. In just a little while the exiled king would be dead, another victory. Her hand caressed his cheek as she clenched around his fingers, but the moment of celebration was interrupted.

Some intangible thing had suddenly shifted slightly. They both looked around at the odd sensation. It was as if something in a composition or balance of Hell had moved incrementally, but aside from the two of them, no one else was connected enough with the plane to observe it.

“What was that?” he asked her.

“I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed a bit. “Go find out if your brother detected anything. I’ll see if our guests know about it.”

Dean kissed her lips as he gave her one last rub of his fingertips, then stood up and purred, “Please don’t finish off Cas without me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of ruining your fun.”

He gave her a little flourish, alluding to a bow, before leaving to go to the Dark Temple. The last few months, Sam had been spending most of his time hunkered down there, working on projects. It seemed like the guy had been throwing himself into his work even more since the invasion. As far as Dean knew, he only seemed to crawl out of his lair for court meetings or to fuck Ruby—with a few hours of sleep thrown in every couple of days for good measure.

Dean entered the oppressive temple and looked around. It was even darker than normal. By his rough assessment, half of the candles had gone out. He tried blinking his eyes black, hoping that his enhanced demonic sight would help, but the temple had an odd mystical occlusion about it.

“Sam,” he called out, in case his brother was on one of the other floors or reading in a nook. “You here?”

He took a few more steps into the chamber, then saw something on the altar. There was a small dead lamb. It was cold. His hand settled on the altar, which was wet. He dragged his fingertips across the stone surface. There was too much blood for a single little lambkin.

“Sam?” he shouted, louder than before. He was worried, but less and less so for his brother.

When Dean turned around, the toe of his left boot hit something in the darkness. Crouching down, he could see that it was a body—one of the guards. His heart started pounding with anger and anticipation as he dragged the corpse into the light of the hallway. The man’s throat had been cut and his skin was extremely pale.

He teleported back to the throne room rather than walk. Abaddon was standing on top on Crowley’s neck. Castiel was bound with brands and piercing bars. There wasn’t time to waste on thoughts of his old-friends-turned-enemies. They had bigger concerns.

Before anyone could ask him what was wrong, he pointed at four of the six court guards, then ordered, “Man the door. If you see my brother, break every fucking limb.”

Abaddon raised an eyebrow at him, then asked, “It was him, wasn’t it?”

“It’s happened,” he replied, then shouted at the two other guards, “Stop all ports to Earth! Find my brother! And find Ruby!”

“Love,” Abaddon called him, drawing his gaze to her. “How dangerous is he like this?”

Dean thought for a moment, recalling the two times he’d previously seen his brother after feeding on demon blood. There was no way of knowing how many demons he’d consumed or how being in Hell might affect him. They’d speculated that he would turn into a vicious monster, blinded by his addiction, but there wasn’t any direct precedent to really go off of.

“I have no idea.”

From his place on the floor, Castiel gasped, “What d-id you do to Sam?”

Dean didn’t bother looking down at the battered angel while replying, “Either too much or not enough.” His eyes were fixed on the doors.

A few seconds later he could hear shouting in the hallway. Abaddon drew an angel blade from a hidden compartment in the throne. Dean grabbed the First Blade, then looked around. He roughly picked up Castiel off the ground and held the blade to the angel’s throat.  There was no telling what his brother was capable of. This wasn’t the time for sportsmanship.

* * *

Sam was so relieved to see Ruby in the hallway that he immediately picked her up, pinned her to the wall, and kissed her. She seemed a bit confused, but  didn’t bite or otherwise hurt him in order to make him stop. With a quick turn of her head, she broke the kiss. Hardly missing a beat, his lips caressed her jaw before moving down to her neck.  He was feeling high from the blood and her soothing scent was starting to make him hard.

“Are you drunk?” she asked while trying to get a look at his face. “Sam, what the fuck’s going on?”

“They were gonna find out.” He kissed her neck, taking extra care not to bite it. Her skin smelled divine. “ They’re gonna know about us. I saw them come for us.”

“Saw them… come for….” She looked up and down the empty hall, then whispered, “Sam, what did you do?”

“I drank—“ He nuzzled her neck a bit, not wanting to meet her eyes “—three guards.”

He could feel her tense with fear, so he took his lips off her flesh. She ran her fingers through his hair.  He couldn’t blame her for being scared, but to his surprise, instead of immediately trying to get away from him, she quietly told him, “It’s okay. You’re strong, Sam. You can handle it. You’re gonna be okay. You just need to get through the first rush.”

He couldn’t remember the last time  someone had tried to comfort him. The intent was appreciated . Everything was very confusing, with so much going on. The blood was making him almost manic with energy and need—much of that need was hunger for blood, but he could feel that eagerness transmute into other cravings: lust being the one that was currently in the forefront of his mind. He started kissing her more passionately and began grinding against her.

“Seriously?” she asked, audibly exasperated. “We gotta run and you’re trashed.” He buried his face in her chest, somewhat embarrassed by his own primitive urges, but he was having a difficult time controlling himself. She pet his head while looking around, then sighed and slid off her underwear. “Get it out of your system. Hard and fast. Come on.”

He’d hardly needed to be given the go-ahead before he pulled his dick out of his pants and pressed into her. It didn’t even matter to him that they were in a hallway. He had so much adrenaline, intoxicating power, and longing in him. In that moment he gave into the chaos.

“Sam,” she told him between thrusts. “This isn’t the time to make it last.”

As they were fucking, a guard turned the corner, spotted them, and approached them cautiously. “What do you think—“

Without looking, Sam twisted his hand at the man, tearing the guard’s head from his body.  Blood splattered the walls and pooled on the floor after pouring from the dropped corpse. The scent of the blood made Sam even harder. Ruby groaned as he repeatedly slammed her into the stone wall. 

“Jesus Christ.” She pulled his head closer to her and moaned in his ear, “Cum for me.”

Her asking for it broke him. It had always been a weakness of his  and she knew it. He finished in a dizzying blur, fingers gripping her tightly, biting his own lip so that he wouldn’t accidentally bite her.

“Hey, come on. Put me down,” she hissed. “We’ve got to get moving.” As soon as she was on the ground, Ruby ran over to the guard’s body. She knelt down next to it, then started saying an incantation. The corpse started smoldering, but no smoke or smell was noticeable. She got up, then gestured for Sam to hurry and follow her. “Put your dick back in your pants, and don’t kill anyone else for like two minutes.”

He quickly did what she said, then stumbled after her while trying to shake the stupor from his head. The sex had helped purge some of the overwhelming energy that was rippling below his skin, but his mind was still a little disoriented. Some self-aware rational part of his brain knew that he was intoxicated. He tried to focus, to power through it. There had been plenty of times when he was on demon blood where he’d been perfectly coherent. The problem points were just when he was starting or stopping. Eventually, he’d reach an equilibrium—in theory.

When they got to her arcane lab, he leaned against a wall and rubbed his face for several seconds. “I’m still feeling it.” 

She held his chin with one hand, turning it down so that he was looking at her, then she studied his eyes for a moment. “I can see that. You look strung out and your eyes are extra fucked up.” 

He let out a small huff, but he honestly didn’t care enough about his eyes to complain or ask how bad it was. That was the least of his concerns. “The blood, it’s just a lot to process.”

She took his hand, guided him back towards her workbench, then sat him down on her stool. “You went from however-many years sober to eating three guys. You bet your ass that’s a lot to process. Now, just hold still and warn me if you start getting hungry.”

While Ruby was digging through the cupboards grabbing spell components, Sam watched out for attackers. As he looked around, he caught his reflection in a silver kettle. His eyes were nearly covered in yellow. The sight was a bit unsettling. It was a side of him that he’d hoped to never see to that extent. He tried focusing for a few seconds and eventually the yellow receded back to just be large speckles in his hazel irises. It was much easier to control than before; there was at least one perk to their shitty situation.

When he looked back, he saw that Ruby had started drawing a meter-wide sigil on the floor in chalk. She ran to a cupboard, grabbed a handful of purple sand, then threw it onto the design she’d just made, causing it to flare with green light. “Sam, come on. We need to try to get to Earth. They’ll be able to track it, but if we’re lucky we might be able to get a head start.”

He stared at the portal for a moment. Even if they could flee right then, Abaddon and Dean would soon find out that Sam had betrayed them, either through Crowley and Castiel’s capture, or upon discovering the dead guards. It was only a matter of time before they were hunted—worse, they’d be hunted on a plane that was getting a very fast education on why all things demonic were bad. Ignoring the risks that humans posed, if the two of them fled to Earth, they would be hunted until they died. Abaddon might even withdraw all the demons from Earth in order to starve his addiction and potentially make him turn on Ruby. It would benefit the humans, but that would only be a temporary reprieve, lasting until his death. If he managed to survive the withdrawal, then he’d be left much weaker, less able to defend himself and be on the run for the rest of his life.

“No.” He shook his head. “That’s not how we survive. We need to get to the throne room.”

“You’re kidding.” Ruby studied him in exasperation for a few seconds, probably trying to evaluate his sobriety, before humoring him ever-so-slightly. “They’re knights, two of them. What are we supposed to do against them?”

Sam looked across her workbench, at the random collection of projects she’d been working on. His mind was racing, trying to figure out something that didn’t sound completely insane. He picked up one of the small metallurgy molds, then asked, “Where’s your chisel?”

* * *

It was a hastily conceived plan that was deeply flawed in many ways, but time was of the essence. Anyway, Sam was well beyond conservative plays. He’d spent a decade biding his time, waiting for the stars to align. Meanwhile, his brother had impulsively stabbed the fabric of the night sky to make his own fucking constellation. A little recklessness was due, especially when there was nothing left to lose.

His left hand dragged along the stone corridors of Hell, periodically bracing him when he felt unstable. He suspected that he looked rather pathetic, slowly staggering along. It wasn’t the confident strut of a man on his way to battle, but honestly it was a miracle he was moving at all. Thankfully, killing the occasional guard could be done with his powers instead of melee combat.

Ruby followed him,  watching his back and readying herself for a fight. He might’ve been the big guns, but she was his only backup. She was whispering incarnations as she carved a sigil into a guard’s severed heart, all while walking into inevitable danger. Just thinking about the skill involved in what she was doing was a bit arousing, but Sam resisted the urge to pin her to the wall again. Instead, he redirected his desire into hunger.

They had initially toyed with the idea of teleporting directly into the throne room, but that posed various risks: Ruby wasn’t sure if there were any protection spells in place to block that sort of ambush, they’d be porting in blind and at risk of splicing into another person, etc. Despite all the rational arguments against jumping straight there, the point that Sam really felt in his gut was that he wanted to hunt.

He moved through the halls with purpose, fighting against his intoxication and the heavy load of supplies he was carrying. The scent of approaching guards gave them away before they turned the corner. Two guards rounded the bend. He tore them both apart, then took a few seconds to drink from the severed neck of the larger corpse.

“That’s number eight,” Ruby reminded him.

The more he drank, the better equipped he’d be to fight Dean and Abaddon, but the harder it’d be to control his high, or maintain that sustenance later if he survived…. That was a big if. He finished draining the body, then continued.

He made short work of the four guards covering the throne room doors. He could smell Abaddon and his brother in the chamber beyond. They were waiting for him to come to them. He smiled at their conservative play; suddenly they were the ones on the defensive. With a quick glance back to make sure Ruby was ready, he raised his hands, blasting both heavy doors from their hinges, sending splintered wood into the air. Before the dust had settled, Ruby threw the engraved heart onto the ground, cursing the surrounding area, and blocking all demonic teleportation,  leaving the couple unable to sneak-attack him.

Sam stepped into the throne room to see Dean holding the First Blade to Castiel’s throat and Abaddon similarly threatening Crowley. They had decided to us his old friend and would-be allies as hostage—the Knights even had them positioned as not-technically-human shields. He was unarmed, making it clear that he intended to use his powers in a fight. It was a risk, especially having never tested his powers against the unparalleled strength of a knight, but if he was engaging in melee with a knight of Hell it was a doomed fight. It hardly mattered that his blood-high had taken the edge off of his bad knee and hand.

Castiel stared at him, candidly shocked. There hadn’t even been a moment where the angel had been deceived into thinking that his friend was unchanged. His piercing blue eyes drifted across Sam’s yellow-flecked eyes, sullen expression, and display of powers; without a doubt, his tailored shirt was stained crimson with several victims’ blood. The recognition on Castiel’s face quickly faded into disappointment or pity.

“Sam,” he whispered in a raspy voice. His mouth moved slightly, incapable of finding adequate words. In the end all he could gasp was, “I’m sorry.”

Sam briefly met the angel’s eyes, but he didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. What was done was done. He wouldn’t take anyone’s sympathy, especially not the pity of someone who was in an even worse position than him. Castiel’s love for what he used to be was blinding him to the new reality and filling him with grief. It would be tragic if it wasn’t so foolish. Sam’s eyes barely lingered on his old friend; there were far more important matters calling his attention.

Dean smiled, then purred in Castiel’s ear, “Don’t worry, baby. It’s not your fault you decided to abandon him, leaving him with me in Hell, turning him into a monster.”

“Clearly, this is a family spat,” interjected Crowley, from his position as a hostage in Abaddon’s grasp. “It’s probably best if we table the politics. I can wait off to the side—”

Abaddon pressed her blade harder against his throat, silencing him. She hissed, “You sniveling shit—” 

Taking advantage of their distraction, Sam quickly  raised his hands at the knights, but it only ruffled their hair and Abaddon’s dress.

Dean started laughing at the feeble display. He dragged his nose along Castiel’s stubble-covered jaw, lightly bit the angel’s cheek, then raised an eyebrow at Sam baitingly.  The idiot really had misjudged the situation.

At the display of his apparently insufficient powers,  Castiel gasped, “Sam, run!”

Sam didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he glanced between the knights, each holding a prisoner, ready to turn what had seemed to be a standoff into such a one-sided fight that they would surely indulge in a bit of play with Castiel and Crowley in an attempt to hurt him. He could see Ruby out of the corner of his eye, standing poised, holding her dagger. No one else was paying attention to such an insignificant threat. Evidently, no one else was wondering why an opportunist like her wasn’t running from such a hopeless fight where she wasn’t the focus of attention. 

Sure enough, Dean began his victory lap.

“Or you can come over here and take him from me,” Dean purred as he dragged the First Blade lightly against Castiel’s throat. “He’s been trying to save you this whole time, like a true friend. So why don’t you—“

Sam flicked his wrists as he telekinetically ripped the six angel blade bullets from his jacket pockets, hurling them at Dean and Abaddon. He didn’t bother trying to curve the trajectory of the bullets. There were too many to have much finesse and he didn’t want to be distracted from his final targets.

The orange flicker of Crowley’s death was insignificant compared to the white light that shone from Castiel’s eyes and mouth. The brilliant flash of the angel’s death forced everyone to look away for a moment. When Sam looked back, everyone’s eyes had been changed black from the blast. His were probably yellow; he didn’t bother reverting them.  He was done hiding what he was.

Dean experimentally shook Castiel’s limp body, then dropped it to the floor as he started laughing. “What the hell was that, angel blade bullets?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied coldly. “We figured three each would do it.”

His older brother furrowed his brow, visibly confused by such a foolish game plan. “You thought angel blades could kill knights of Hell?”

“No.” The corner of Sam’s lip curled upward. “They were just the first bullets we found. It didn’t really matter what they were made out of as long as I could get them in your chests.”

The knights exchanged a quick, confused glance, then Abaddon dropped Crowley’s body. Her limbs  lurched slightly as she made to walk forward , but she didn’t actually move  towards him . Dean’s eyes widened, as he struggled in his own spot.

Thanks to his status as a human-demon bastard, walking with six tiny devil’s traps had been like carrying a 200-pound weight in each of his pockets, but the gradual realizations written on Dean and Abaddon’s faces were well worth the effort. As he savored the moment, Ruby quickly snuck up behind Abaddon and slit her wrists, disabling her fine motor functions.

“No!” Dean shouted as he threw the First Blade at his brother in his desperation to land a hit, but Sam deflected it easily with his telekinesis. He started digging his fingers into one of the bullet holes in his chest, looking for the devil’s trap-engraved bullet.  When he finally found it, rather than try to grab it, he pushed the first one through, piercing his back.

Sam casually circled them, giving the couple a little time to fully appreciate their situation. He stopped at the table next to the throne and began pouring two goblets of wine,  but he didn't pick them up.

Dean’s eyes kept flicking to Abaddon, who was helpless to get her own bullets  because of Ruby severing the tendons in her wrists. He tried reaching her, but she was a few feet too far away. For a moment, he just stared at her in terror, then he began frantically trying to get to the last two bullets.  He ripped open his shirt, then plunged two fingers into one of the bullet holes and tried to tear into his stomach. The flesh stretched and pulled. In his haste, he kept losing his grip as the meat became sloppy with blood. He started scratching with his diminutive fingernails, trying to cut himself open to get to the traps.

Sam kept inching the bullets up, deeper into Dean’s chest,  undoing his brother’s incremental progress, but his eyes were locked with Abaddon. She held herself with the dignity of someone who was simply resentful to have been bested.

“ I honestly don’t know if I’m impressed or embarrassed ,” Abaddon told Sam. She nodded to herself, then looked over at Dean. “This won’t be the end.”

“Well, that’s true for some of us,” Ruby said as she slit Abaddon’s throat and shoved her toward Sam, who caught her.

“No!” Dean stopped tearing at his own flesh, frozen in horror. “Don’t-don’t you fucking—Don’t! No!” His voice actually broke and tears trickled down his cheeks.

Sam put his lips to Abaddon’s neck and started drinking. The raw power in the knight’s blood was incredible. For a moment he thought he might actually faint from the overwhelming rush, but somehow he managed to keep hold of her.  It was like he was waking up after living in a daze for so long. Hell teemed around him with an energy and strength that he could finally tap. He hadn’t felt power like that since he was possessed by Lucifer—but there was no archangel running the show. This was all him.  Without thinking about it, he drew every ounce of that rich nectar from her veins.

Dean’s skin turned pale. His mouth wavered, but no words came out. He appeared as though he would simply collapse, if not for the devil’s traps inside his heart.

Sam stared at him, baiting him slightly as he licked the last bit of blood from Abaddon’s neck. It was nice seeing the once-proud sadist looking so small and helpless. He dropped the dead queen to the stone floor. 

He imagined how he might kill his brother. Murdering him with his bare hands, as he’d been forced to murder so many before, had a nice poetic justice to it, though cutting off the oxygen to a demon’s brain seemed ineffective. He could crush Dean’s skull, the way he’d popped Jody’s below his boot. That would be awfully fast. He considered simply drinking him dry, snuffed out the same as his dead lover. He could hear Dean’s heart beating, pumping more of that precious liquid through his veins. The smell of the blood trickling from the wounds in his chest was so deeply enticing.

So easily, he could end it. Another quick cut, a second incredible rush, taking him further than he’d ever dreamed… and then…. He was already lost. He had been in a million different ways, accumulating over the last few years, like a landslide. It was tempting to allow his self-destruction to run rampant. He might truly give up on being the reasonable man;  he’d already given up on being the good man.

If he so chose, he could give in to his baser instincts and  single-handedly rid all three planes of demons, one corrupted beating heart at a time. And in the end, he’d devour the closest thing he had to a friend before such an agonizing withdrawal that he didn’t doubt it’d be lethal. There would be no more demons. Hell would collapse and the war with Earth would end. His unknown sacrifice would cause the humans to rejoice, but  he already knew that that peace couldn’t last. 

Heaven was weak and Hell would have no one left to man the ship. Humans wouldn’t stop dying. Their souls wouldn’t stop passing. Death, change, chaos, reaction, repair, conquest— There were thousands of tales of struggle and strife on the walls of the Dark Temple, and a significant number of them didn’t feature demon protagonists. He could wipe the entire species of demons from existence, but nature abhors a vacuum. Humans were no more noble that demons; they were simply weaker. Hell was prime real estate, a seat of power, one that would fill with whatever opportunist filth that would bubble up at the opening.

He pushed aside the characterization of how he might save the planes from upheaval. The narrative barely fucking mattered.  He didn’t need to concern himself with what others thought of him. With the exception of Ruby, his closest friends were dead, killed by pragmatism as much as his hands. The demons of Hell and the humans of Earth might not know what to make of him, but as long as they recognized his power and he offered a return to stability, he wasn’t concerned. 

Sam stared his older brother down for a moment, then took a seat on the throne.  He placed his hands on the armrests and held himself with a chilling confidence. When a handful of guards rushed in, he met them with his intensely yellow eyes, stopping them in their tracks. Having exerted his authority over the guards, he turned his attention to Dean.

The knight’s face was somehow red with anger despite the major blood loss. His cheeks were damp with tears, but his expression was pure, blinding hatred. While his eyes were locked on Sam, Ruby slipped up behind Dean and sliced at his arms, severing vital tendons. He tried to grab at her, but couldn’t turn around to reach her. Once she was done making quick work of his arms, she held the blade to his throat, but Sam raised his hand, stopping her for the moment.

“You better kill me,” Dean snarled. A few tears of rage trickled from his eyes. “I swear, I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands.”

“Ruby.” Sam curled a finger, calling her over to him.

She lowered the knife from Dean’s neck, then approached the throne. Instead of walking around Abaddon, she stepped directly on the dead queen’s abdomen, earning a hissing snarl from Dean. She took Dean’s old spot beside the throne, but she leaned against the chair back, casually draping her arm along it. When Sam handed her a goblet of wine, she accepted it. She raised her glass in a toast to her partner.

“To the underdogs.”

Without looking away from his brother, Sam lifted his glass to touch hers, then took a sip. He drew Ruby’s hand to his lips, kissing it, not out of affection for her, but rather to taunt Dean.

When he released her hand, Ruby gently ran her fingers through his hair and said, “I’m sure you’ve been thinking up all sorts of wonderful things to do to him.”

“Oh, a few things come to mind,” Sam replied coolly.

Through gritted teeth, Dean growled,  “If you think that you’re scaring me—“

“I don’t give a fuck about how you feel, fear included.” Sam kept his expression and tone completely neutral—matter-of-fact. “You won’t be tortured. There won’t be any lessons. You aren’t a project or potential. You’re just grade-A quality knight blood, on tap. You once told me my power came from you and Abaddon.” Sam used a single finger to wipe some of her blood and the wine from his lips. “All you’ll ever do for the rest of your life is give me power.”

Sam gestured for one of the guards that was standing cautiously by the door. The woman wisely stepped forward and nodded attentively, ready to take his order.

“How may I serve, your highness?”

“I want him bound in our most secure prison cell.  Cut off his hands and tongue, but immediately cauterize the wounds, so that he doesn’t lose too much of that precious blood of his. Keep him alive, chained up so he can’t move even if the bullets fall out of him.”

“Yes, your highness.” She bowed, then grabbed Dean and started dragging him away.

Before his brother was taken from his sight, Sam added, “ And cut off his legs too while you’re at it.” He smiled at Dean as he echoed one of the first threats he’d heard in Hell. “You don’t actually  _ need _ your legs.”


End file.
